THE TRAIL OF MAKU
When for the second time that night he bade the girl adieu and saw her
enter the house of her friends, Orme went briskly to the electric-car
line.
He had not long to wait. A car came racing down the tracks and stopped at
his corner. Swinging aboard at the rear platform, he glanced within.
There were four passengers--a man and woman who, apparently, were
returning from an evening party of some sort, since he was in evening
dress and she wore an opera-cloak; a spectacled man, with a black
portfolio in his lap; a seedy fellow asleep in one corner, his head
sagging down on his breast, his hands in his trousers pockets; and--was
it possible? Orme began to think that Fate had indeed changed her face
toward him, for the man who sat huddled midway of the car, staring
straight before him with beady, expressionless eyes, was Maku.
Under the brim of his dingy straw hat a white bandage was drawn tight
around his head--so tight that from its under edge the coarse black hair
bristled out in a distinct fringe. The blow of the wrench, then, must
have cut through the skin.
Well--that would mean one more scar on the face of the Japanese.
The other scar, how had Maku come by that? Perhaps in some battle with
the Russians in Manchuria. He seemed to be little more than a boy, but
then, one never could guess the age of a Japanese, and for that matter,
Orme had more than once been told that the Japanese had begun to impress
very young soldiers long before the battle of Mukden.
While making these observations, Orme had drawn his hat lower over his
eyes. He hoped to escape recognition, for this opportunity to track Maku
to his destination was not to be missed. He also placed himself in such a
position on the platform that his own face was partly concealed by the
cross-bars which protected the windows at the end of the car.
In his favor was the fact that Maku would not expect to see him.
Doubtless the Japanese was more concerned with his aching head than with
any suspicion of pursuit, though his somewhat indeterminate profile, as
visible to Orme, gave no indication of any feeling at all. So Orme stood
where he could watch without seeming to watch, and puzzled over the
problem of following Maku from the car without attracting attention.
The refusal of the other Japanese to accept the girl's offer of money for
the papers had given Orme a new idea of the importance of the quest. Maku
and his friend must be Japanese government agents--just as Poritol and
Alcatrante were unquestionably acting for their government. This, at
least, was the most probable explanation that entered Orme's mind. The
syndicate, then,--or concession, or whatever it was--must be of genuine
international significance.
Though Orme continued to smother his curious questionings as to the
meaning of the secret, he could not ignore his general surmises. To put
his confidence in the girl--to act for her and for her alone--that was
enough for him; but it added to his happiness to think that she might be
leading him into an affair which was greater than any mere tangle of
private interests. He knew too, that, upon the mesh of private interests,
public interests are usually woven. The activity of a Russian syndicate
in Korea had been the more or less direct cause of the Russo-Japanese
War; the activity of rival American syndicates in Venezuela had been, but
a few years before, productive of serious international complications. In
the present instance, both South Americans and Japanese were interested.
But Orme knew in his soul that there could be nothing unworthy in any
action in which the girl took part. She would not only do nothing
unworthy; she would understand the situation clearly enough to know
whether the course which offered itself to her was worthy or not.
In events such as she had that night faced with him, any other girl Orme
had ever met would have shown moments of weakness, impatience, or fear.
But to her belonged a calm which came from a clear perception of the
comparative unimportance of petty incident. She was strong, not as a man
is strong, but in the way a woman should be strong.
The blood went to his cheeks as he remembered how tenderly he had spoken
to her in the boat, and how plain he had made his desire for her. What
should he call his feeling? Did love come to men as suddenly as this? She
had not rebuked him--there was that much to be thankful for; and she must
have known that his words were as involuntary as his action in touching
her shoulder with his hand.
But how could she have rebuked him? She was, in a way, indebted to him.
The thought troubled him. Had he unintentionally taken advantage of her
gratitude by showing affection when she wished no more than comradeship?
And had she gently said nothing, because he had done something for her?
If her patience with him were thus to be explained, it must have been
based upon her recognition of his unconsciousness.
Still, the more he pondered, the more clearly he saw that she was not a
girl who, under the spell of friendly good will, would permit a false
situation to exist. Her sincerity was too deep for such a glossing of
fact. He dared assume, then, that her sympathy with him went even so far
as to accept his attitude when it was a shade more than friendly.
More than friendly! Like a white light, the truth flashed upon him as he
stood there on the rocking platform of the car. He and she would have to
be more than friendly! He had never seen her until that day. He did not
even know her name. But all his life belonged to her, and would belong to
her forever. The miracle which had been worked upon him, might it not
also have been worked upon her? He felt unworthy, and yet she might
care--might already have begun to care--But he put the daring hope out of
his mind, and looked again at Maku.
The Japanese had not moved. His face still wore its racial look of
patient indifference; his hands were still crossed in his lap. He sat on
the edge of the seat, in order that his feet might rest on the floor, for
his legs were short; and with every lurch of the car, he swayed easily,
adapting himself to the motion with an unconscious ease that betrayed
supple muscles.
The car stopped at a corner and the man and woman got out, but Maku did
not even seem to glance at them. Orme stepped back to make way for them
on the platform, and as they descended and the conductor rang the bell,
he looked out at the suburban landscape, with its well-lighted,
macadamized streets, its vacant lots, and its occasional houses, which
seemed to be of the better class, as nearly as he could judge in the
uncertain rays of the arc-lamps. He turned to the conductor, who met his
glance with the look of one who thirsts to talk.
"People used to go to parties in carriages and automobiles," said the
conductor, "but now they take the car when they've any distance to go.
It's quicker and handier."
"I should think that _would_ be so, here in the suburbs," said Orme.
"Oh, this ain't the suburbs. We crossed the city limits twenty minutes
ago."
"You don't carry many passengers this time of night."
"That depends. Sometimes we have a crowd. To-night there's hardly anyone.
Nobody else is likely to get on now."
"Why is that?"
"Well, it's only a short way now to the connection with the elevated
road. People who want to go the rest of the way by the elevated, would
walk. And after we pass the elevated there's other car-lines they're more
likely to take, where the cars run frequenter."
"Do you go to the heart of the city?"
"No, we stop at the barns. Say, have you noticed that Jap in there?"
The conductor nodded toward Maku.
"What about him?"
"He was put aboard by a cop. Looks as though somebody had slugged him."
"That's so," commented Orme. "His head is bandaged."
"Judging from the bandage, it must have been a nasty crack," continued
the conductor. "But you wouldn't know he'd been hurt from his face. Say,
you can't tell anything about those Johns from their looks, can you,
now?"
"You certainly can't," replied Orme.
The conductor glanced out. "There's the elevated," he said. "I'll have to
go in and wake that drunk. He gets off here."
Orme watched the conductor go to the man who was sleeping in the corner
and shake him. The man nodded his head vaguely, and settled back into
slumber. Through the open door came the conductor's voice: "Wake
up!"--Shake--"You get off here!"--Shake--"Wake up, there!" But the man
would not awaken.
Maku was sitting but a few feet from the sleeping man. He had not
appeared to notice what was going on, but now, just as the conductor
seemed about to appeal to the motorman for help, the little Japanese slid
along the seat and said to the conductor: "I wake him."
The conductor stared, and scratched his head. "If you can," he remarked,
"it's more'n I can do."
Maku did not answer, but putting his hand behind the sleeping man's back,
found some sensitive vertebra. With a yell, the man awoke and leaped to
his feet. The conductor seized him by the arm and led him to the
platform.
The car was already slowing down, but without waiting for it to stop, the
fellow launched himself into the night, being preserved from falling by
the god of alcohol, and stumbled away toward the sidewalk.
"Did you see the Jap?" exclaimed the conductor. "Stuck a pin into him,
that's what he did."
"Oh, I guess not," laughed Orme. "He touched his spine, that was all."
The car stopped. The spectacled passenger with the portfolio arose and
got off by way of the front platform. Would Maku also take the elevated?
If he did, unless he also got off the front platform, Orme would have to
act quickly to keep out of sight.
But Maku made no move. He had returned to his former position, and only
the trace of an elusive smile on his lips showed that he had not
forgotten the incident in which he had just taken part. Meantime Orme had
maintained his partial concealment, and though Maku had turned his head
when he went to the conductor's help, he had not appeared to glance
toward the back platform.
The conductor rang the bell, and the car started forward again with its
two passengers--Maku within, Orme without--the pursuer and the pursued.
"I thought the motorman and I was going to have to chuck that chap off,"
commented the conductor. "If the Jap hadn't stuck a pin into him----"
"I don't think it was a pin. The Japanese know where to touch you so that
it will hurt."
"An' I didn't even like to rub the fellow's ears for fear of hurtin' him.
I heard of a man that was made deaf that way. Smashed his ear-drums."
"I wonder where the Jap will get off?" said Orme.
"Oh, he'll go right through to the barns and take a Clark Street car.
There's a lot of them Japs lives over that way. He'll be one of 'em, I
guess."
"Unless he's somebody's cook or valet."
"I don't believe he is. But, of course, you never know."
"That's true," said Orme. "One never knows."
As the car plunged onward, Maku suddenly put his hand in his pocket. He
drew it out empty. On his face was an expression which may mean
"surprise," among the Japanese. He then fumbled in his other pockets, but
apparently he did not find what he was looking for. Orme wondered what it
might be.
The search continued. A piece of twine, a pocket-knife, a handkerchief,
were produced in turn and inspected. At last he brought out a greenback,
glancing at it twice before returning it to his pocket. Orme knew that it
must be the marked bill. But Maku was looking for something else. His
cheek glistened with perspiration; evidently he had lost something of
value. After a time, however, he stopped hunting his pockets, and seemed
to resign himself to his loss--a fact from which Orme gathered that the
object of his search was nothing so valuable that it could not be
replaced.
When he had been quiet for a time, he again produced the greenback, and
examined it attentively. From the way he held it, Orme judged that he was
looking at the well-remembered legend: "Remember Person You Pay This To."
Presently he turned it over and held it closer to his eyes. He was, of
course, looking at the abbreviated directions.
"You'd think that Jap had never seen money before," remarked the
conductor.
"Perhaps he hasn't--that kind," replied Orme.
"Maybe he guesses it's a counterfeit."
"Maybe."
"Looks as though he was trying to read the fine print on it."
"Something you and I never have done, I imagine," said Orme.
"That's a fact," the conductor chuckled. "I never noticed anything about
a bill except the color of it and the size of the figure."
"Which is quite enough for most men."
"Sure! But I bet I pass on a lot of counterfeits without knowin' it."
"Very likely. The Jap has evidently finished his English lesson. See how
carefully he folds the bill before he puts it away."
"We're comin' to the barns," said the conductor. "Far as we go."
As he spoke, the car slowed down and stopped, and Maku arose from his
seat. Orme was at the top of the steps, ready to swing quickly to the
ground, if Maku left the car by the rear door. But the Japanese turned to
the forward entrance. Orme waited until Maku had got to the ground, then
he, too, descended.
Maku did not turn at once toward the Clark Street car that was waiting to
start down-town. He stood hesitant in the street. After a moment, his
attention seemed to be attracted by the lights of an all-night
restaurant, not far away, and he crossed the street and walked rapidly to
the gleaming sign.
Orme followed slowly, keeping on the other side of the street. If Maku
was hungry, why, Maku would eat, while he himself would wait outside like
a starving child before a baker's window. But Maku, it seemed, was not
hungry. Through the window Orme saw him walk to the cashier's desk and
apparently ask a question. In answer, the woman behind the desk-pointed
to a huge book which lay on the counter near by. Orme recognized it as
the city directory.
For some time Maku studied the pages. Then he seemed to appeal to the
cashier for help, for she pulled the book to her, looked at him as though
she were asking a question, and then, rapidly running through the leaves,
placed her finger at a certain part of a certain page and turned the book
around so that the Japanese could see. He nodded and, after bowing in a
curious fashion, came back to the street.
Orme had, meantime, walked on for a little way. He would have gone to the
restaurant in an endeavor to find out what address Maku had wished, but
for two reasons: The cashier might refuse to tell him, or she might have
forgotten the name. In either event his opportunity to follow Maku would
thus be lost--and to follow Maku was still his best course. Accordingly
he watched the Japanese go back to a Clark Street car and climb aboard.
It was an open car, with transverse seats, and Maku had chosen a position
about two-thirds of the way back. There was, as yet, only one other
passenger. How to get aboard without being seen by Maku was a hard
problem for Orme, but he solved it by taking a chance. Walking rapidly
toward the next corner, away from the car, he got out of the direct rays
of the street-lamp, and waited.
Presently the car started. It almost reached Orme's corner when he
signaled it and, hurrying into the street, swung on to the back platform.
There had been barely time for the car to slow down a little. Maku could
not well have seen him without turning his head, and Orme had watched the
little Japanese closely enough to know that he had continued to stare
straight before him.
Safe on the back platform, a desire to smoke came to Orme. He found a
cigar in his case and lighted it. While he was shielding the match, he
looked over his hollowed hand and saw Maku produce a cigarette and light
it. The Japanese had apparently wished the consolation of tobacco just as
Orme had.
"An odd coincidence," muttered Orme. "I hope it wasn't mind-reading." And
he smiled as he drew a mouthful of smoke.
Lincoln Park slid by them on the left. The car was getting well down into
the city. Suddenly Maku worked along to the end of his seat and got down
on the running-board. The conductor pulled the bell. The car stopped and
the Oriental jumped off.
The action had been so quick that Orme, taken off his guard, had not had
time to get off first. He, therefore, remained on the car, which began to
move forward again. Looking after Maku, he saw that the Japanese,
glancing neither to right nor to left, was making off down the side
street, going west; so he in turn stepped to the street, just as Maku
disappeared beyond the corner. He hurried quickly to the side street and
saw Maku, half a block ahead, walking with short, rapid steps. How had
Maku got so far? He must have run while Orme was retracing the way to the
corner. And yet Maku seemed to have had no suspicion that he was being
followed.
The chase led quickly to a district of poor houses and shops--an
ill-looking, ill-smelling district, where every shadow seemed ominous.
Whenever they approached a corner, Orme hurried forward, running on his
toes, to shorten the distance in the event that Maku turned, but the
course continued straight until Orme began to wonder whether they were
not getting near to the river, one branch of which, he knew, ran north
through the city.
At last Maku turned into an alley, which cut through the middle of a
block. This was something which Orme had not expected. He ran forward and
peered down the dark, unpleasant passage. There was his man, barely
visible, picking a careful way through the ash-heaps and avoiding the
pestilential garbage-cans.
Orme followed, and when Maku turned west again at the next street, swung
rapidly after him and around the corner, with the full expectation of
seeing him hurrying along, half a block away. But no one was in sight.
Had he slipped into one of the near-by buildings?
While Orme was puzzling, a voice at his elbow said, "Hello!"
He turned with a start. Flattened in a shadowed niche of the wall beside
him was Maku!
"Hello!" the Japanese said again.
"Well?" exclaimed Orme sharply, trying to make the best of the situation.
"You mus' not follow me." The Japanese spoke impassively.
"Follow you?"
"I saw you in a mirror at the other end of car."
So that was it! Orme remembered no mirror, but the Japanese might apply
the word to the reflecting surface of one of the forward windows.
"You lit a match," continued Maku. "I saw. Then I come here, to find if
you follow."
Orme considered. Now that he was discovered, it would be futile to
continue the chase, since Maku, naturally, would not go to his
destination with Orme at his heels. But he said:
"You can't order me off the streets, Maku."
"I know. If you follow, then we walk an' walk an' walk--mebbe till nex'
week." Orme swore under his breath. It was quite clear that the little
Japanese would never rejoin the man who had the papers until he was sure
that he had shaken off his pursuer. So Orme simply said:
"Good-night."
Disappointed, baffled, he turned eastward and walked with long strides
back toward the car-line. He did not look to see whether Maku was behind
him. That did not matter now. He had missed his second opportunity since
the other Japanese escaped him in the university campus.
Crossing North Clark Street a block north of the point at which he and
Maku had left the car, he continued lakeward, coming out on the drive
only a short distance from the Pere Marquette, and a few minutes later,
after giving the elevator-boy orders to call him at eight in the morning,
he was in his apartment, with the prospect of four hours of sleep.
But there was a final question: Should he return to the all-night
restaurant near the car-barns and try to learn from the cashier the
address which Maku had sought? Surely she would have forgotten the name
by this time. Perhaps it was a Japanese name, and, therefore, the harder
to remember. True, she might remember it; if it were a peculiar
combination of letters, the very peculiarity might have fixed it in her
mind. And if he hesitated to go back there now, the slim chance that the
name remained with her would grow slimmer with every added moment of
delay. He felt that he ought to go. He was dog-tired, but--he remembered
the girl's anxiety. Yes, he would go; with the bare possibility that the
cashier would remember and would be willing to tell him what she
remembered, he would go.
He took up his hat and stepped toward the door. At that moment he heard a
sound from his bedroom. It was an unmistakable snore. He tip-toed to the
bedroom door and peered within. Seated in an arm-chair was a man. He was
distinctly visible in the light which came in from the sitting-room, and
it was quite plain that he was sound asleep and breathing heavily. And
now for the second time his palate vibrated with the raucous voice of
sleep.
Orme switched on the bedroom lights. The man opened his eyes and started
from the chair.
"Who are you?" demanded Orme.
"Why--the detective, of course."
"Detective?"
"Sure--regular force."
"Regular force?"
The stranger pulled back his coat and displayed his nickeled star.
"But what are you doing here?" gasped Orme, amazed.
"Why, a foreign fellow came to the chief and said you wanted a man to
keep an eye on your quarters to-night--and the chief sent me. I was
dozing a bit--but I'm a light sleeper. I wake at the least noise."
Orme smiled reminiscently, thinking of the snore. "Tell me," he said,
"was it Senhor Alcatrante who had you sent?"
"I believe that _was_ his name." He was slowly regaining his
sleep-benumbed wits. "That reminds me," he continued. "He gave me a note
for you."
An envelope was produced from an inside pocket. Orme took it and tore it
open. The sheet within bore the caption, "Office of The Chief of Police,"
and the few lines, written beneath in fine script, were as follows:
"Dear Mr. Orme:
"You will, I am sure, pardon my seeming over-anxiety for your
safety, and the safety of Poritol's treasure, but I cannot resist
using my influence to see that you are well-protected to-night by
what you in America call 'a plain-clothes man.' I trust that he
will frighten away the Yellow Peril and permit you to slumber
undisturbed. If you do not wish him inside your apartment, he will
sit in the hall outside your door.
"With all regard for your continued good health, believe me, dear
Mr. Orme,
"Yours, etc., etc.,
"Pedro Alcatrante."
In view of everything that had happened since the note was penned, Orme
smiled a grim smile. Alcatrante must have been very anxious indeed; and
yet, considering that the minister knew nothing of Orme's encounter with
the Japanese and his meeting with the girl, the sending of the detective
might naturally have been expected to pass as an impressive, but
friendly, precaution.
The detective was rapidly losing his self-assurance. "I had only been
asleep for a moment," he said.
"Yes?" Orme spoke indifferently. "Well, you may go now. There is no
longer any need of you here."
"But my instructions----"
"Were given under a misapprehension. My return makes your presence
unnecessary. Good-night--or good-morning, rather." He nodded toward the
door.
The detective hesitated. "Look a here!" he suddenly burst out. "I never
saw you before."
"Nor I you," replied Orme.
"Then how do I know that you are Mr. Orme? You may be the very chap I was
to keep out, far as I know."
"Sure enough, I may be," said Orme dryly, adding--"But I am not. Now go."
The detective narrowed his eyebrows. "Not without identification."
"Ask the night-clerk," exclaimed Orme impatiently. "Can't you see that I
don't wish to be bothered any longer?"
He went over to the door and threw it open.
"Come," he continued. "Well, here then"--as the detective did not
move--"here's my card. That ought to do you."
He took a card from his pocket-case and offered it to the detective, who,
after scrutinizing it for a moment, let it fall to the floor.
"Oh, it's all right, I guess," he said. "But what shall I say to the
chief?"
"Simply say that I didn't need you any longer."
The detective picked up his hat and went.
"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Orme as he closed the door. "But I wonder why I
didn't notice his hat. It was lying here in plain sight."
He went to the telephone and spoke to the clerk. "Did you let that
detective into my apartment?" he asked.
"Why, yes, Mr. Orme. He was one of the regular force, and he said that
you wanted him here. I called up the chief's office, and the order was
corroborated. I meant to tell you when you came in, but you passed the
desk just while I was down eating my supper. The elevator-boy let you in,
didn't he?"
"Yes. Never mind, it's all right. Good-night."
But when Orme examined his traveling-bag, he found that someone had
evidently made a search through it. Nothing had been taken, but the
orderly arrangement of his effects had been disturbed. His conclusion was
that Alcatrante had bribed the fellow to go much farther than official
zeal demanded. Doubtless the minister had paid the detective to hunt for
a marked five-dollar bill and make a copy of whatever was written on
it--which would have been quite a safe proceeding for the detective, if
he were not caught at the task. A subtle man, Alcatrante; but no subtler
than the Japanese.
Dismissing the incident from his mind, Orme again made ready to return to
the all-night restaurant. He paused at the door, however, to give the
situation a final analysis. Maku had lost something. After hunting for it
vainly, he had gone to the city directory for information which appeared
to satisfy him. Then what he lost must have been an address. How would he
have been likely to lose it?
Orme's fatigue was so great that he repeated the question to himself
several times without seeing any meaning in it. He forced his tired brain
back to the first statement. Maku had lost something. Yes, he had lost
something. What was it he had lost? Oh, yes, a paper.
It was futile. His brain refused to work.
Maku had lost a paper. A paper?
"Ah!" Orme was awake now.
"How stupid!" he exclaimed.
For he had entirely forgotten the paper which he had taken from the
pocket of the unconscious Maku, there on the campus! He had thrust it
into his pocket without looking at it, and in the excitement of his later
adventures it had passed utterly from his memory.
Another moment and he had the paper in his hand. His fingers shook as he
unfolded it, and he felt angry at his weakness. Yes, there it was--the
address--written in an unformed hand. If he had only thought of the paper
before, he would have been saved a deal of trouble--would have had more
sleep. He read it over several times--"Three forty-one, North Parker
Street"--so that he would remember it, if the paper should be lost.
"I'm glad Maku didn't write it in Japanese!" he exclaimed.