THE OX-BLOOD VASE
It was a week later, and well after two, in the dullest ebb of earth's
deadest hour, when Benson lifted the portiere and stepped into my room.
I put down the book at which my brain had been scratching like a dog
scratching at a closed door. It was a volume of Gautier's _nouvelles_.
I had just reached that mildly assuaging point in _Une Nuit de
Cleopatre_ where the mysterious arrow, whistling through the palace
window of a queen bored almost to extinction, buries itself quivering
in the cedar wainscoting above her couch.
But the incident, this time, seemed to have lost its appeal. The whole
thing sounded very empty and old, very foolish and far-away. The
thrill of drama, I cogitated, is apt to leak out of a situation when it
comes to one over a circuit of two thousand moldering years. So I
looked up at my servant a little listlessly and yet a little puzzled by
what was plainly a studied calmness of appearance.
"Benson, why aren't you in bed?"
"If you will pardon me, sir," began the intruder, "I've a gentleman
here."
He was so extraordinarily cool about it that I rose like a fish at the
flash of something unusual.
"At this time of night?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir."
"But what _kind_ of gentleman, Benson?"
Benson hesitated; it was the sort of hesitation that is able to
translate silence into an apology.
"I think, sir, it's a burglar."
"A what?" I demanded, incredulously.
"The fact is, sir, I 'appened to hear him at the lock. When he forced
the door, sir, not being able to work the lock, I was waiting for him."
The dropped aspirate was an unfailing sign of mental disturbance in
Benson. I closed my book and tossed it aside. It was only drama of
the second dimension, as old and musty as a mummy. And here,
apparently, was adventure of the first water, something of my own world
and time.
"This sounds rather interesting, Benson. Be so good as to show the
gentleman up."
I sat down, with a second look at the dragging hands of the little
French clock on my mantel. But Benson still seemed a trifle ill at
ease.
"I--I took the liberty of tying him up a bit, sir," explained that
astute old dissembler, "being compelled, as it were, to use a bit of
force."
"Of course. Then untie him as much as necessary, and fetch him here.
And you might bring up a bottle of _Lafitte_ and a bite to eat. For
two, if you please."
"Yes, sir," he answered. But still he hesitated.
"The revolver, sir, is in the cabinet-drawer on your left."
There were times when old Benson could almost make me laugh; times when
the transparencies of his obliquities converted them into something
almost respectable.
"We won't need the revolver, Benson. What I most need I fancy is
amusement, distraction, excitement, anything--anything to get me
through this endless hell of a night."
I could feel my voice rise on the closing words, like the uprear of a
terrified racehorse. It was not a good sign. I got up and paced the
rug, like a castaway pacing some barren and empty island. But here, I
told myself, was a timely footprint. I waited, as breathless as a
Crusoe awaiting his Friday.
I waited so long that I was beginning to dread some mishap. Then the
portiere parted for the second time, and Benson led the burglar into
the room.
I experienced, as I looked at him, a distinct sense of disappointment.
He was not at all what I expected. He wore no black mask, and was
neither burly nor ferocious. The thing that first impressed me was his
slenderness--an almost feline sort of slenderness. The fact I next
remarked was that he was very badly frightened, so frightened, in fact,
that his face was the tint of a rather soiled white glove. It could
never have been a ruddy face. But its present startling pallor, I
assumed, must have been largely due to Benson's treatment, although I
was still puzzled by the look of abject terror which gave the captive's
eyes their animal-like glitter. He stood before me for all the world
as though a hospital interne had been practising abstruse bandaging
feats on his body, so neatly and yet so firmly had the redoubtable
Benson hobbled him and swathed his arms in a half-dozen of my best
Irish linen table-napkins. Over these, again, had been wound and
buckled a trunk-strap. Benson had not skimped his job. His burglar
was wrapped as securely as a butcher wraps a boned rib-roast.
My hope for any diverting talk along the more picturesque avenues of
life was depressingly short-lived. The man remained both sullen and
silent. His sulky speechlessness was plainly that of a low order of
mind menaced by vague uncertainties and mystified by new surroundings.
Blood still dripped slowly down the back of his soiled collar, where
Benson's neat whelp had abraded the scalp.
Yet his eyes, all the time, were alert enough. They seemed to take on
a wisdom that was uncanny, the inarticulate wisdom of a reptile,
bewildering me, for all their terror, with some inner sense of vicious
security. To fire questions at him was as futile as throwing pebbles
at an alligator. He had determined, apparently, not to open his lips;
though his glance, all this time, was never an idle or empty one. I
gave up, with a touch of anger.
"Frisk him," I told the waiting Benson. As that underworld phrase was
new to those respectable Anglian ears, I had to translate it. "See if
he's carrying a gun. Search his pockets--every one of them."
This Benson did, with an affective mingling of muffled caution and open
repugnance. He felt from pocket to pocket, as gingerly as small boys
feel into ferret holes, and with one eye always on the colorless and
sphinx-like face beside him.
The result of that search was quite encouraging. From one pocket came
an ugly, short-barreled Colt. From another came two skeleton keys and
a few inches of copper wire bent into a coil. From still another came
a small electric flashlight. Under our burglar's coat, with one end
resting in his left-hand waistcoat pocket, was a twenty-inch steel
"jimmy." It was a very attractive tool, not unlike a long and
extremely slender stove lifter, with a tip-tilted end. I found it
suggestive of tremendous leverage-power, tempting one to test its
strength. It proved as inviting to the hand as a golfer's
well-balanced "driver."
From the right-hand waistcoat pocket Benson produced a lady's gold
watch, two finger rings, a gold barrette, and a foot or two of
old-fashioned locket chain, of solid gold. There was nothing to show
who the owner of this jewelry might be.
"I suppose you just bought this at Tiffany's?" I inquired. But the
needle of antiphrasis had no effect on his indurated hide. His
passivity was beginning to get on my nerves. He might have been a wax
figure in the Eden Musee, were it not for those reptiliously alert and
ever exasperating eyes. I stood up and confronted him.
"I want to know where this stuff came from."
The white-faced burglar still looked at me out of those sullen and
rebellious blinkers of his. But not a word passed his lips.
"Then we'll investigate a little farther," I said, eying his somewhat
protuberant breast-bone. "Go on with the search, Benson, and get
everything." For it was plain that our visitor, before honoring us
that night, had called at other homes.
I watched Benson with increased interest as his fastidiously exploring
hand went down inside the burglar's opened waistcoat. I saw him feel
there, and as he did so I caught a change of expression on our
prisoner's face. He looked worried and harassed by this time; he
seemed to have lost his tranquil and snake-like assurance. His small,
lean head with the pathetically eager eyes took on a rat-like look. I
knew then the end toward which my mind had been groping. The man was
not snake-like. He was rat-like. He was a cornered rat. Rat seemed
written all over him.
But at that moment my eyes went back to Benson, for I had seen his hand
bringing away a small vase partly wrapped in a pocket-handkerchief.
This handkerchief was extremely dirty.
I took the vase from his hand, drawing away the rag that screened it.
Only by an effort, as I did so, was I able to conceal my surprise. For
one glance at that slender little column of _sang-de-boeuf_ porcelain
told me what it was. There was no possibility of mistake. One glimpse
of it was enough. It was from the Gubtill collection. For once before
my fingers had caressed the same glaze and the same tender contours.
Once before, and under vastly different circumstances, I had weighed
that delicate tube of porcelain in my contemplative hands.
I sat back and looked at it more carefully. I examined the crackled
groundwork, with its brilliant mottled tones, and its pale ruby shades
that deepened into crimson. I peered down at the foot of enameled
white with its slowly deepening tinge of pale green. Then I looked up
at the delicate lip, the lip that had once been injured and artfully
banded with a ring of gold. It was a vase of the K'angshi Period, a
rare and beautiful specimen among the Lang Yao monochromes. And
history said that thirty years before it had been purchased from the
sixth Prince of Pekin, and had always been known as "The Flame."
Both Anthony Gubtill and I had bid for that vase. Our contest for it
had been a spirited one, and had even been made the subject of a
paragraph or two in the morning papers. But an inexplicably reckless
mood had overtaken that parsimonious old collector, and he had won,
though the day after the Graves sale I had been a member of that
decorously appreciative dinner party which had witnessed its
installation between a rather valuable peach-bloom amphora of
haricot-red groundwork, with rose spots accentuated by the usual clouds
of apple-green, and a taller and, to my mind, much more valuable
ashes-of-roses cylindrical Lang Yao with a carved ivory base. We had
looked on the occasion as somewhat of an event, for such things
naturally are not picked up every day. So the mere sight of the vase
took me back to the Gubtill home, to that rich and spacious house on
lower Fifth Avenue where I had spent not a few happy evenings. And
that in turn took my thoughts back to a certain Volpi sale and an old
Italian table-cover of blue velvet. From the table-cover they flashed
on to Mary Lockwood and the remembered loveliness of her face as we
stood side by side staring down at the gold galloon along the borders
of that old vestment. Then I drew memory up short, with a wince, as I
suddenly realized that the wanderer had been penetrating into strictly
forbidden paths.
I put the vase down on my table and turned away from it, not caring to
betray my interest in it, nor to give to the rat-like eyes still
watching me any inkling of my true feelings. Yet the thought of such
beauty being in the hands of a brute like that sickened me. I was
angered by the very idea that such grace and delicacy should be
outraged by the foul rags and the even fouler touch of a low-browed
sneakthief. I resented the outrage, just as any normal mind would
resent a jungle ape's abduction of a delicate child.
I turned and looked the criminal up and down. I noticed, for the first
time, that his face was beaded with sweat.
"Might I inquire just what you intend doing with this?" I asked, gazing
back, against my will, at the fragile little treasure known as The
Flame.
The man moved uneasily, and for the first time. For the first time,
too, he spoke.
"Give it to its owner," he said.
"And who is its owner?"
He looked from me to the vase, and then back again.
"It belongs to a pal o' mine over t' Fifth Avenue," he had the
effrontery to assert.
"And where did you get it?"
"Out o' hock!"
I couldn't restrain a touch of impatience as my glance fell on the all
too eloquent implements of burglary.
"And you expect me to swallow that?" I demanded.
"I don't give a dam' what you swallow. I know the trut' when I'm
sayin' it!"
"And you're telling me the truth?" I found it hard to keep my anger
within bounds.
"Sure," was his curt answer.
"That's a cowardly lie!" I cried out again. "You're a coward and a
liar, like all your sneaking kind, that skulk about dark corners, and
crawl under beds, and arm yourself to the teeth, and stand ready to
murder innocent women, to strike them down in the dark, rather than be
found out! It's cowardice, the lowest and meanest kind of cowardice!"
The sweat stood out on his face in glistening drops.
"What's eatin' you, anyway?" he demanded. "What 'ave I done?"
I pushed the cluster of women's jewelry closer to him.
"You've done some of the meanest and dirtiest work a man can stoop to.
You've skulked and crawled and slunk through the dark to rob women and
children!"
"Who's given _you_ a license to call me a coward?"
"Do you dare to intimate there's anything but low and arrant cowardice
in work like this?"
"Just try it," he said with a grin that made his face hideous.
"Why should I try it?" I demanded. "Do you suppose because I don't
carry a jimmy and gun that I can't face honest danger when I need to?"
I glanced round at my den walls, studded with trophies as they were,
from the bull moose over the fireplace to the leopard pelt under my
heels. The other man followed my glance, but with a lip-curl of
contempt. He had jumped to the conclusion, of course, that those
relics of encounter in the open stood as a sort of object-lesson of
bravery which belonged to me in person.
"Bah," he said, apparently glad to crowd me off into some less personal
side-issue, "_that's_ all play-actin'. Get up against what I have, and
you'd tone down your squeal. Then you'd walk into the real thing."
"The real thing, black-jacking chambermaids and running like a pelted
cur at the sight of a brass button!"
I could see his sudden wince, and that it took an effort for him to
speak.
"You'd find it took nerve, all right, all right," he retorted. "And
the kind o' nerve that ain't a cuff-shooter's long suit."
My movement of contempt brought him a step or two nearer. But it was
Benson who spoke first.
"Hadn't we better have the police, sir?" he suggested. The burglar,
with his eyes on my face, stepped still closer, as though to shoulder
any such suggestion as Benson's out of the issue.
"You just go out in the middle of the night," he went on, with derisive
volubility. "Go out at night and look at a house. Stand off, and look
at it good and plenty. Then ask yourself who's inside, and what's
doin' behind them brick walls, and who's awake, and where a shot's
goin' to come from, and what chances of a getaway you'll have, and the
size of the bit you'll get if you're pinched. Just stand there and
tell yourself you've got to get inside that house, and make your haul
and get away with the goods, that you've got to do it or go with empty
guts. Try it, and see if it takes nerve."
I must have touched his professional pride. I had trifled with that
ethical totem-pole that is known as honor among thieves.
"All right," I said, suddenly turning on him as the inspiration came to
me. "We'll try it, and we'll try it together. For I'm going to make
you take this stuff back, and take it back to-night."
I could see his face cloud. Then a sudden change came over it. His
rat-like eyes actually began to twinkle.
"I think we ought to have the police, sir," reiterated Benson,
remembering, doubtless, his encounter below-stairs. "He's an uncommon
tricky one, sir."
I saw, on more sober second thought, that it would be giving my friend
too much rope, too many chances for treachery. And he would not be
over-nice in his methods, I knew, now that I had him cornered. A
second idea occurred to me, a rather intoxicating one. I suddenly felt
like a Crusader saving from pollution a sacred relic. I could catch
the whimper of some unkenneled sense of drama in the affair.
"Benson," I said, "I'm going to leave this worthy gentleman here with
you. And while you look after him, I'm going to return this
peach-bloom vase to its owner."
"He ain't in town to-night," broke in my troubled burglar.
"And to demonstrate to his somewhat cynical cast of mind that there's
nothing extraordinary in his particular line of activity, I propose to
return it in the same manner that it was taken."
Benson looked troubled.
"I beg pardon, sir, but mightn't it get us all into a bit of trouble?
Couldn't we leave it until morning, sir, and talk it over quiet-like
with your friend Mr. McCooey, or with Lieutenant Belton, sir, or the
gentleman from the Pinkerton office?"
"And have a cuff-shooter running for help over such a triviality?
Never, Benson, never! You will make yourself comfortable here with
this gallant gentleman of the black-jack, and keep this handsome Colt
of his quite close about you while you're doing it. For I'm going to
take this piece of porcelain back where it belongs, even though I have
to face a dozen lap-dogs and frighten every housemaid of Twelfth Street
into hysterics."
Nobody, I have more than once contended, is altogether sane after
midnight. This belief came back to me as I stood before that
gloomy-fronted Fifth Avenue house, in that ebb-tide hour of the night
when even Broadway is empty, wondering what lay behind the brownstone
mask, asking myself what dangers lurked about that inner gloom,
speculating as to what sleepers stirred and what eyes, even as I stood
there, might be alert and watching.
As Benson had suggested, I might have waited decorously until daylight,
or I might have quietly ascended the wide stone steps and continued to
ring the electric push-bell until a sleepy servant answered it. But
that, after all, seemed absurdly tame and commonplace. It was without
the slightest tang of drama, and I was as waywardly impatient to try
that enticing tip-tilted instrument of steel on an opposing door as a
boy with a new knife is to whittle on the nursery woodwork.
There was a tingle of novelty even in standing before a grimly
substantial and altogether forbidding-looking house, and being
conscious of the fact that you had decided on its secret invasion. I
could no longer deny that it took a certain crude form of nerve. I was
convinced of this, indeed, as I saw the approaching figure of a
patrolman on his rounds. It caused me, as I felt the jimmy like a
staybone against my ribs, and the flashlight like a torpedo-head in my
pocket, to swing promptly about into Twelfth Street and walk toward
Sixth Avenue. I experienced a distinct glow of satisfaction as the
patrolling footsteps passed northward up the quietness of the avenue.
But the house itself seemed as impregnable as a fortress. It
disheartened me a little to find that not even a basement grill had
been disturbed. For the second time I turned and sauntered slowly
toward Sixth Avenue. As I swung eastward again I found that the last
house on the side-street, the house abutting the Fifth Avenue mansion
which was the object of my attack, was vacant. Of that there could be
no doubt. Its doors and windows were sealed with neatly painted
shutters.
This, it occurred to me, might mark a possible line of approach. But
here again I faced what seemed an impregnable position. I was backing
away a little, studying that boarded and coffin-like front, when my
heel grated against the iron covering of a coal-chute. This coal-chute
stood midway between the curb and the area railing. I looked down at
it for a moment or two. Then something prompted me to test its edge
with the toe of my shoe. Then, making quite sure that the street was
empty, I stooped down and clutched at the edge of the iron disk. It
was quite heavy. But one tug at it showed me that its lock-chain had
been forced apart.
It took but a moment to lift the metal shield to one side of the
chute-head. It took but another moment to lower myself into the chute
itself. I could see that it was a somewhat ignominious beginning. But
I felt buoyantly sure that I was on the right track. It took an effort
to work the iron disk back over the opening. It also required many
strange contortions of the body to worm my way down into that narrow
and dirty tunnel.
My rather peremptory advent into the coal-bin resulted in a startling
amount of noise, noise enough to wake the soundest of sleepers. So I
crouched there for several seconds, inhaling dust, and listening and
wondering whether or not the walls above me harbored a caretaker. Then
I took out the pocket searchlight, and, with the pressure of a finger,
directed my ray of illumination against a wooden partition bisected by
a painted wooden door.
A distinct sense of disappointment swept through me as I stooped down
to examine this door and found that it had already been forced open. I
knew, however, that I was following in the footsteps of my more
experienced predecessor. Then came a storeroom, and then a
laundry-room, with another jimmied door at the head of the stairway
leading to the first floor.
Here I stood waiting and listening for some time. But still again
nothing but darkness and silence and that musty aroma peculiar to
unoccupied houses surrounded me. I felt more at home by this time, and
was more leisurely in my survey of the passage upward. I was, of
course, confronted by nothing more disturbing than ghost-like furniture
covered with ticking and crystal-hung chandeliers encased in
cheesecloth. I began to admire my friend the burglar's astuteness in
choosing so circuitous and yet so protected a path. There was almost
genius in it. His advance, I felt sure, was toward the roof. As I had
expected, I found the scuttle open. The lock, I could see, had been
quite cleverly picked. And, so far, there had not been a mishap.
Once out on the housetop, however, I foresaw that I would have to be
more careful. As I clambered up to the higher coping-tiles that marked
the line of the next roof, I knew that I had actually broken into the
enemy's lines. Yet the way still seemed clear enough. For, as I came
to the roof-scuttle of the second house I found that it, too, remained
unlocked. My predecessor had made things almost disappointingly easy
for me. Yet, in another way, he had left things doubly dangerous. I
had to bear the brunt of any mis-step he may have made. I was being
called to face the responsibility of both his intrusion and my own.
So it was with infinite precaution that I lifted the scuttle and leaned
over that little well of darkness, inhaling the warmer air that seeped
up in my face. With it came an odor quite different to that of the
house I had just left. There was something expository in it, something
more vital and electric, eloquent of a place inhabited, of human beings
and their lairs and trails, of movement and life and vaguely defined
menaces. It was, I fancied, a good deal like that man-smell which
comes down-wind to a stalked and wary elk.
I stepped down on the iron ladder that led into the uncertain darkness,
covering the trap after me. I began to feel, as I groped my way
downward, that the whole thing was becoming more than a game. I was
disturbed by the thought of how deep I had ventured into an
uncertainty. I began to be oppressed by the thought of how complicated
my path was proving. I felt intimidated by the undetermined
intricacies that still awaited me. A new anxiety was taking possession
of me, a sort of low fever of fear, an increasing impatience to replace
my precious porcelain, end my mission, and make my escape to the open.
It began to dawn on me, as I groped lower and lower down through the
darkness, that a burglar's calling was not all beer and skittles. I
began to feel a little ashamed of my heroics of an hour before.
Then I drew up, suddenly, for a sound had crept to my ears. The tingle
that ran through my body was not wholly one of fright. Yet, as I stood
there in the darkness with one hand against the wall, I caught the
rhythm of a slow and muffled snoring. There was something oddly
reassuring in that reiterated vibration, even though it served to
emphasize the dangers that surrounded me. It was not unlike the sound
of a bell-buoy floating up to a fog-wrapped liner's bridge.
I was no longer a prey to any feeling of hesitancy. I was already too
deep in the woods to think of turning back. My one passion now was to
complete the circuit, to emerge on the other side.
I began to wonder, as I felt for the stair banister and groped my
cautious way down the treads, just how the burglar himself had effected
that final exit from the house. And the sooner I got away from the
sleeping quarters, I felt, the safer I would be. Every bedroom was a
shoal of dangers, and not all of them, I very well knew, would be
equipped with the same generous whistling-buoy as that I had just left
behind me. There was, too, something satisfying in the knowledge that
I was at least getting nearer and nearer the ground-floor. This was
due, not so much to the fact that I was approaching a part of the house
with which I was more or less familiar, but more to the fact that my
descent marked an approach to some possible pathway of escape. For
that idea was now uppermost in my mind, and no aviator with a balky
motor ever ached to get back to earth more eagerly than I.
The utter darkness and silence of the lower halls were beginning to get
on my nerves. I was glad to feel the newel-post, which assured me that
I had reached the last step in my descent. I was relieved to be able
to turn carefully and silently about to the left, to grope toward a
door which I knew stood before me in the gloom, and then cautiously to
turn the knob and step inside.
I knew at once, even before I took the flashlight from my pocket, that
I was in the library. And the room that opened off this, I remembered,
half cabinet-lined study and half informal exhibition-room, was the
chamber wherein Anthony Gubtill treasured his curios. It would take
but a minute or two, I knew, to replace his priceless little porcelain.
And another minute or two, I felt, ought to see me safely out and on my
way home.
I stood with my back to the door, determined that no untimely blunder
should mar the end of my adventure. My first precaution was to thrust
out my flashlight and make sure of my path. I let the incandescent ray
finger interrogatively about the massively furnished room, resting for
a moment on marble and metal and glass-fronted book-shelf. I
remembered, with almost a smile of satisfaction, the little _Clytie_
above the fireplace, and the _Hebe_ in bronze that stood beside the
heavy reading-lamp. This lamp, Gubtill had once told me, had come from
Munich; and I remembered his chuckle over the fact that it had come in
a "sleeper" trunk and had evaded duty.
Then I let the wavering light travel toward the end of the glimmering
and dark-wooded reading-table. I stood there, picking out remembered
object after object, remarking them with singular detachment of mind as
my light continued to circle the end of the room.
Then I quietly made my way to the open door in the rear, and bisecting
that second room with my spear of light, satisfied myself that the
space between the peach-bloom amphora and the ashes-of-roses Yang Lao
with the ivory base was indeed empty.
I stood listening to the exotic tick of a brazen-dialed Roumanian
clock. I lingered there, letting my bald light-shaft root like a
hog's-snout along that shelf so crowded with delicate tones and
contours. I sighed a little enviously as I turned toward the other end
of the room.
Then, of a sudden, I stopped breathing. Automatically I let my thumb
lift from the current-spring of my storage-lamp and the light at once
went out. I stood there with every nerve of my body on edge. I
crouched forward, tingling and peering into the darkness before me.
For I had suddenly discovered that I was not alone in the room.
There, facing me, picked out as distinctly as a baby spot-light picks
out an actor's face, I had seen the owner of the house himself, not ten
paces from me. He was sitting in a high-backed armchair of green
leather. He must have been watching me from the first, every moment
and every movement. He had made no effort to interrupt or intercept
me. He had been too sure of his position.
I waited for what seemed an interminable length of time. But not a
sound, beyond the querulous tick of the clock, came to my ears. Not
even a movement took place in the darkness.
The undefined menace of this silence was too much for me. The whole
thing grew into something strangely like a nightmare. I moved away,
involuntarily, wondering what I should say, and after what fashion I
should begin my foolish explanation. I crouched low and backed off
obliquely, as though some value lay in the intervention of space, and
as though something venomous were confronting me. I fell slowly back,
pawing frenziedly about me for some sustaining tangibility to which to
cling. As I did so my body came in contact with some article of
furniture--just what I could not tell. But I shied away from it in a
panic, as a colt shies at a fallen newspaper.
My sudden movement threw over a second piece of furniture. It must
have been some sort of collapsible screen, for it fell to the floor
with an echoing crash. I waited, holding my breath, with
horripilations of fear nettling every limb of my body, knowing only too
well that this must indeed mark the end.
But there was no movement, no word spoken, no slightest sound. I
stared through the darkness, still half expectant. I tried to tell
myself that it may have been mere hallucination, that expectant
attention had projected into my line of vision a purely imaginary
fig-lire. I still waited, with my heart pounding. Then the tension
became more than I could endure. I actually crept forward a step or
two, still peering blindly through the darkness, still listening and
waiting.
Then I caught my breath with sudden new suspicion, with a quick fear
that crashed, bullet-like, through the film of consciousness. It was
followed by a sickening sense of shock, amounting almost to physical
nausea.
I once more raised the flashlight. This time my hand shook perceptibly
as I turned the electric ray directly in front of me. I let the minute
circle of illumination arrow through the darkness, direct to the white
face that seemed to be awaiting it. Then I let it come to a rest.
I remember falling back a step or two. I may have called out, but of
that I am not sure. Yet of one thing I was only too certain. There
before me sat Anthony Gubtill. _He was quite dead_.
My first feeling was not altogether one of terror. It was accompanied
by a surge of indignation at the injustice, at the brutality, of it
all. I was able to make note of the quilted dressing-gown that covered
the relaxed body. I was collected enough to assume that he had
overheard the intruder; had come to investigate, and had been struck
down and cunningly thrust into a chair. This inference was followed by
a flash of exultation as I remembered that his murderer was known, that
the crime could easily be proved against him, that even at the present
moment he was safe in Benson's custody.
I moved toward the dead man, fortified by the knowledge of a vast new
obligation. It was only after I had examined the face for a second
time and seen how death had been caused by a cruelly heavy blow, dealt
by some blunt instrument, that the enormity of my own intrusion into
that house of horror came home to me. I felt a sudden need for light,
for sobering and rationalizing light. Even the ticking from the
brazen-faced clock had become something phantasmal and unnerving.
I groped feverishly and blindly about in search of an electric
switch-button. Then, of a sudden, I stopped again, my movement
arrested by a sound.
I knew, as I stood and listened, that it was only the purr of an
automobile, faint and muffled from the street outside. But it suddenly
brought home to me the awkwardness of my position. To be found in that
house, or even to be seen leaving it, was no longer a desirable thing.
My foolhardy caprice, before an actuality so overawing, dwindled into
something worse than absurdity. And thought came back at a bound to
the porcelain in my pocket. I recalled the old-time rivalry between
the dead man and myself for The Flame. I recalled the details of my
advent between those walls where I stood. And my blood went cold. It
was not a matter of awkwardness; it was a matter of peril. For who, I
again asked myself, would believe a story so absurd, or accept an
excuse so extravagant?
The clock ticked on accusingly. The sound of the automobile stopped.
I had just noted this with relief when the thud of a quietly closed
door fell on my startled ears. Then came the murmur of voices. There
was no longer any doubt about the matter. A motor had come to the
door, and from it certain persons had entered the house.
I crept to the library and listened. Then I tiptoed back and closed
the door of the inner room. I felt more secure with even a half-inch
panel between me and what that inner room held.
Then I listened. I began to hear the padded tread of feet. Then came
the sound of another opened door, and then the snap of a light-switch.
There was nothing secret about the new invasion. I knew, as I shrank
back behind one of the high-backed library chairs, that the front of
the house was already illuminated.
Then came the sound of a calling voice, apparently from the head of the
stairs. It was a cautious and carefully modulated voice; I took it for
that of a young man of about twenty.
"Is that you, Caddy?"
Then came a silence.
"I say, is that you, Orrie?" was demanded in a somewhat somnolent
stage-whisper. There was something strangely reassuring in that
commonplace boyish voice. Anthony Gubtill, I knew, had no immediate
family. I vaguely recalled, however, some talk of a Canadian nephew
and niece who had at times visited him.
"Sh--s--sh!" said a woman's voice from the lower hall, "Don't wake
Uncle Anthony."
It must have been a young woman. Her voice sounded pensive, like that
of a girl who might be coming home tired from a dance at Sherry's.
Yet, knowing what I did, its girlish weariness took on a pathos
indescribably poignant.
"It's an awful hour, isn't it?" asked a second man's voice from the
lower hall. There were sounds that seemed to imply that wraps were
being removed.
"Almost four," came the answer from above. "Had a good time, Caddy?"
I heard a stifled yawn.
"Rather," answered the girl's voice.
"I say, Orrie, bring up those Egyptian gaspers for a puff or two, will
you?" requested the youth from above, still in a stage-whisper. "And,
Caddy, be sure the latch is on."
"On what?" demanded Orrie.
"The door, you idiot!" was the sleepily good-natured retort.
Then I suddenly ducked low behind my chair-back, for the young man
called Orrie had flung open the library door. He came into the room
gropingly, without switching on the electrics. I could see his trim
young shoulders, and the white blur of his shirt-front. Behind him,
framed in the doorway, stood a young girl of about twenty, a blonde in
pale blue, with bare arms and bare shoulders. Her skin looked very
soft and baby-like in the strong sidelight. I could not repress
something that was almost a shudder at the thought of this careless
gaiety and youth so close to the grim tragedy behind me, so unconscious
of the awakening that might come to them at almost any moment.
"_Do_ hurry!" said the tired girl, as the young man fumbled about the
table-end. I realized, as I peeped out at her, that my first duty
would be to keep those round young eyes from what might confront them
in that inner room.
"I've got 'em!" answered the man. He stood a moment without moving.
Then he turned and walked out of the room, quietly closing the door
behind him.
I emitted a gasp of relief and stood up once more. Nothing alive or
dead, I determined, would now keep me in that house. Yet for all that
new-born ecstasy of impatience, I was still compelled to wait, for I
could hear the occasional sound of feet and a whisper or two from
behind the closed door. Then all sound died away; the gloom and
silence again engulfed me.
I took the Yang Lao porcelain from my pocket, unwrapped it, and crept
back to the inner room. I groped along the wall in the darkness,
circling wide about the green-leather chair in the center. I put the
vase back on its cabinet, without so much as flashing my light. Then I
circled back along the wall, felt for the library door, and groped
cautiously across the perilous breadth of the furniture-crowded
chamber. It took me several seconds to find the door that opened into
the hallway. Once through it and across the hall, I knew, only a
spring-latch stood between me and the street. So I turned the knob
quickly and swung back the door.
But I did not pass through it. For, instead of darkness, I found
myself confronted by a blaze of light. In that blaze of light stood
three waiting and expectant figures. What most disturbed me was the
fact that the man called Orrie held in his hand a revolver that seemed
the size of a toy-cannon. This was leveled directly at my blinking
eyes. The other youth, in cerise pajamas with orange colored frogs and
a dressing-gown tied at the waist with a silk girdle, stood just behind
him, holding an extremely wicked-looking Savage of the magazine make.
Behind this youth again, close by the newel-post, stood the girl in
blue, all the sleepiness gone out of her face.
The sight of that wide-eyed and eager trio irritated me beyond words.
There was no longer any thrill in the thing. I had gone through too
much; I could not react to this newer emergency. I kept wondering if
the idiot with the Colt realized just how delicate a pressure would
operate the trigger on which I could see his finger shaking. But that
shake, it was plain, was more from excitement than fear.
"We've got him!" cried the youth in the cerise pajamas. I might have
been a somewhat obstinate black bass wheedled into his landing-net,
from the way he spoke.
"Don't move!" commanded the older of the two, wrinkling his brow into a
frown of youthful determination. "Don't you dare move one inch, or
I'll put a hole through you."
I had no intention of moving.
"Watch his hands," prompted the younger man. "He ought to put 'em up."
"Yes, Orrie, he ought to put them up," echoed the girl by the
newel-post. She reminded me, with her delicate whites and pinks and
blues, of the cabinet of porcelain at which I had so recently stared.
"Back up through the door," cried Orrie. "Come on--back up!"
I wearily obeyed this somewhat equine order. Then he commanded me to
hold my hands above my head. I did so without hesitation; I had no
wish to argue while that Colt was staring me in the eyes.
They followed me, Indian file, into the room. It was the girl who
closed the door as Orrie switched on the lights. She stood with her
back to it, studying my face. I could see that I rather interested
them all. But in that interest I detected no touch of either
friendliness or respect. The only one I seemed to mystify was the girl
at the door.
"Have you anything to say?" demanded Orrie, squaring his shoulders.
"Yes, I have a great deal to say," I told him. "But I prefer saying it
to you alone."
I could see his movement of disdain.
"Will you listen to that!" commented the youth in the cerise pajamas.
"And if you will be so good as to stop poking that pistol in my face,"
I continued with some heat, "and then send these children out of the
room, I shall say what I have to, and do it very briefly!"
"Children!" came in an indignant gasp from the girl at the door.
"We'll stick by you, old man," assured the youthful hero in cerise,
with his heels well apart.
"And just why should I closet myself with a burglar?" inquired the
astute Orrie, staring at me with the utmost insolence. Yet I could see
that at least the precision of my articulation was puzzling him a bit.
"That's asinine," I retorted. "I'm not a burglar, and you ought to
know it."
To my astonishment, a little tripartite ripple of laughter greeted this
statement.
"Then what are you?" asked the incredulous Orrie.
I knew there was no further use beating about the bush.
"Yes, who are you?" demanded the other youth.
He still held the magazine-revolver balanced in his right hand. The
truth had to come out.
"I'm Witter Kerfoot," I told them, as steadily as I could. "Kerfoot,
of Gramercy Park West."
"What number?"
I gave him the number. I could see the trio exchange glances; they
were plainly glances of amusement. My young friends, I could see, were
enjoying a home melodrama, a melodrama in which I was obviously the
most foolish of villains. I began to feel a good deal like a
phonograph grinding out a comic record.
"And with that face!" ejaculated the man called Orrie.
The quiet contempt of his glance caused me to shift about, so I could
catch a glimpse of myself in the Venetian mirror between the
book-shelves. That glimpse was indeed a startling one. I had quite
forgotten the transit through the coal-hole. I could not even remember
how or when I broke my hat-crown. I had remained as unconscious of the
scratch across my cheek as I was of the garret cobwebs that festooned
my clothing. I saw as I peeped into the mirror only a sickly-hued and
grimy-looking footpad with dirty hands and a broken hat. It was no
wonder they laughed. My environment for the last hour had not been one
that tended toward consciousness of attire. I was about to remove my
disgracefully disfiguring headgear when the younger man swung about on
me with the Savage thrust point-blank in my face.
"Don't try any of that!" he gasped. "You keep up those hands."
The whole situation was so beside the mark, was so divorced from the
sterner problem confronting both them and myself, that it dispirited
and angered me.
"We've had about enough of this tommy-rot!" I protested.
"Yes, we'll cut out the tommy-rot, and get him tied," proclaimed the
man with the Colt.
"Then search him first," prompted the young man. "Here, Caddy, take
Orrie's Colt while he goes through him," he commanded, in the
chest-tones of a newly-acquired savagery, "and if he tries to move,
wing him!"
The girl, wide-eyed and reluctant, took the heavy revolver. Then Orrie
advanced on me, though in an altogether wary and tight-lipped manner.
To continue my protests, I saw, would be only to waste my breath.
There was nothing to do but submit to the farce.
I said nothing as he produced the telltale flashlight. I also remained
silent as he triumphantly unearthed the jimmy and the damnatory
skeleton keys. I could see the interchange of exultant glances as
these were tossed out on the polished table-top.
"Get the straps from the golf bags!" suggested the youth with the
Savage. I could not help remembering how this scene was paralleling
another of the same nature and the same night, when Benson and I had
been the masters of the situation.
The man called Orrie seemed a little nonplussed at the fact that he had
found no valuables in my outer pockets, but he did not give up. He
grimly ignored my protests as he explored still deeper and dug out my
monogramed wallet, and then a gold cigarette-case, on which my name was
duly inscribed. He turned them over in his hand a couple of times and
examined them carefully. Then a great light seemed to come to him. He
succumbed, as even his elders have done, to a sudden sense of drama.
I saw him dart to the outer room and catch up a telephone directory.
He riffled through the pages with quick and impatient fingers. Then he
strode back, and looked me up and down.
"I know what this man's done," he cried, his eyes alight with
conviction.
"What?" demanded the younger man.
"He's visited more than this house to-night. He's gone through Witter
Kerfoot's, as well. He's taken these things from there. And now _it's
up to us to take him back with them_!"
I could see the sheer theatricality of the situation clutch at his two
listeners. I could see them surrender to it, although the girl still
seemed to hesitate.
"Hadn't I better call Uncle Anthony?" she suggested.
At one breath her words brought me back to both the tragedy that lay so
close at hand, and the perilous complexity of my own position.
"No, that's foolish!" cut in Orrie. "The car's still outside. Caddy,
I think you'll have to come along. You can sit with Jansen on the
driving-seat."
The hero of the maneuver turned back to me. I was thinking mostly of
the soft-eyed girl with the baby-white skin, and how I could get her
safely away.
"Will you come quietly?" my captor demanded of me.
"Yes," I answered, without looking up, "I'll come quietly."
It was the girl's voice, a little shrill with excitement, that next
broke the silence.
"Orrie, he's not a burglar!" she cried out, in her treble-noted
conviction.
"Then what is he?"
"He's a gentleman."
"What makes you think so?" demanded the indifferent Orrie as he
motioned me, with a curt movement of his Colt-barrel, toward the hall
door.
"I know by his nails!" was her inconsequential yet quite definite reply.
Orrie laughed.
"Then you'd give tea and macaroons to every burglarious barber out of
Sing Sing," he scoffed. "And our real answer's waiting for us in
Gramercy Square."
It seemed to take but a minute or two in the car to swing us from
Twelfth Street up to Twentieth, and then eastward into the stillness of
the square. My captors had insisted that I should not talk. "Not a
word!" commanded Orrie, and I could feel his insolent gun-barrel
against my ribs as he gave the command for the second time. They were
drunk, I could see, with the intoxication of their exploit. They were
preoccupied with inhaling their subtle sense of drama. With the
dictatorial self-sufficiency of true inebriety they had enjoined me
from every effort at explanation. The bubble, they felt, was far too
pretty a one to be pricked.
They alighted, one in front of me and one behind me, still carrying
their foolish and murderous-looking firearms. The girl remained in her
seat. Then the three of us grimly ascended my steps.
"It's needless to ring the bell," I wearily explained. "My pass-key
will admit you."
"But I insist on ringing," said Orrie as I fitted the key to the lock.
"I shall be compelled, in that case, to call the officer who is
watching us from the corner," was my quiet response.
"Call and be hanged, then!" was the younger man's ultimatum.
One word over their shoulders brought my old friend McCooey, the
patrolman, across the corner and up the steps. I swung open the door
as he joined us. Then I turned on the hall lamps and faced my two
captors.
"Officer, I want you to look at me very carefully, and then assure
these gentlemen I am Witter Kerfoot, the owner and occupant of this
house."
"Sure he's Kerfoot," said the unperturbed McCooey. "But what's the
throuble this time?"
"Something more serious than these gentlemen dream of. But if the
three of us will go quietly upstairs, you'll find my man Benson there.
You'll also find another man, tied up with half a dozen--"
McCooey, from the doorway, cut me short.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't be stayin' to see your joke out."
"But you've got to."
"Fact is, sir," he explained, in a lowered voice, "Creegan, av
Headquarthers, has a Sing-Sing lifer bottled up in this block, and I'm
holdin' wan end av the p'lice lines--a jail-breaker, sir, and a tricky
wan, called Pip Foreman, the Rat!"
"The Rat?" I echoed.
"The same, sir. But I must be off."
"Don't go," I said, closing the door. "_Your man's up-stairs, waiting
for you_!"
"Waitin' for me?" he demanded. "What man?"
"The man they call the Rat," I tried to explain to him. "And I'll be
greatly obliged to you, McCooey, if you'll make as short work of this
situation as you can, for the truth of the matter is, I feel rather
tired, and fancy there's five or six hours of good honest sleep
awaiting me!"