NUMBER THREE FORTY-ONE
When Orme was aroused by the ringing of his telephone-bell the next
morning and heard the clerk's voice, saying over the wire, "Eight
o'clock, sir," it seemed as if he had been asleep but a few minutes.
During breakfast he reviewed the events of the preceding evening. Strange
and varied though they had been, his thoughts chiefly turned to the girl
herself, and he shaped all his plans with the idea of pleasing her. The
work he had set for himself was to get the envelope and deliver it to the
girl. This plan involved the finding of the man who had escaped from the
tree.
The search was not so nearly blind as it would have been if Orme had not
found that folded slip of paper in Maku's pocket. The address, "three
forty-one North Parker Street," was unquestionably the destination at
which Maku had expected to meet friends.
To North Parker Street, then, Orme prepared to go. Much as he longed to
see the girl again, he was glad that they were not to make this adventure
together, for the reputation of North Parker Street was unsavory.
Orme found his way readily enough. There was not far to go, and he
preferred to walk. But before he reached his destination he remembered
that he had promised Alcatrante and Poritol to meet them at his apartment
at ten o'clock.
His obligation to the two South Americans seemed slight, now that the
bill had passed from his hands and that he knew the nature of Poritol's
actions. Nevertheless, he was a man of his word, and he hurried back to
the Pere Marquette, for the hour was close to ten. He was influenced to
some extent by the thought that Poritol and Alcatrante, on learning how
he had been robbed of the bill, might unwittingly give him a further
clue.
No one had called for him. He waited till ten minutes past the hour,
before he concluded that he had fulfilled his part of the bargain with
them. Though he did not understand it, he attached no especial
significance to their failure to appear.
Once again he went to North Parker Street. Three forty-one proved to be a
notion shop. Through the window he saw a stout woman reading a newspaper
behind the counter. When he entered she laid the paper aside and arose
languidly, as though customers were rather a nuisance than a blessing.
She was forty, but not fair.
Orme asked to see a set of studs. She drew a box from a show-case and
spread the assortment before him.
He selected a set and paid her, offering a ten-dollar bill. She turned to
a cash register and made change--which included a five-dollar bill.
Orme could hardly believe his eyes. The bill which she placed in his hand
bore the written words: "Remember Person you pay this to."
He turned it over. In the corner was a familiar set of abbreviations.
There was no doubt about it. The bill was the same which had been taken
from him, and which he had last seen in the possession of Maku.
What an insistent piece of green paper that marked bill was! It had
started him on this remarkable series of adventures. It had introduced
excitable little Poritol and the suave Alcatrante to his apartment. It
had made him the victim of the attack by the two Japanese. It had brought
the girl into his life. And now it came again into his possession just at
the moment to prove that he was on the right track in his search for Maku
and the man who had the papers. The queerest coincidence was that the
bill would never have come into his possession at all, had it not been
for his first meeting with the girl--who at that very time was herself
searching for it. The rubbing of his hat against the wheel of her car--on
so little thing as that had hinged the events that followed.
"This is strange," Orme addressed the woman.
"It doesn't hurt it any," said the woman, indifferently.
"I know that. But it's a curious thing just the same."
The woman raised her shoulders slightly, and began to put away the stock
she had taken out for Orme's benefit.
"Who paid this to you?" persisted Orme.
"How should I remember? I can't keep track of all the persons that come
in the store during the day."
"But I should think that anything so queer as this----" He saw that he
could get nothing from her except by annoying her.
The woman glared. "What you a botherin' about? Why don't you leave well
enough alone?"
Orme smiled. "Tell me one thing," he said, "do you know a Japanese that
lives hereabouts?"
"Oh," said the woman, "so you're one of the gentlemen he was expectin',
eh? Well, it's the front flat, two flights up."
"Thank you," said Orme. He walked out to the street, whence a backward
glance showed him the woman again concealed in her newspaper.
At one side of the shop he found the entrance to a flight of stairs which
led to the floors above. In the little hallway, just before the narrow
ascent began, was a row of electric buttons and names, and under each of
them a mail-box. "3a" had a card on which was printed:
"Arima, Teacher of Original Kano Jiu-Jitsu."
Should he go boldly up and present himself as a prospective pupil? If
Arima were the one who had so effectively thrown him the night before, he
would certainly remember the man he had thrown and would promptly be on
his guard. Also, the woman in the shop had said, "you are _one_ of the
gentlemen he was expectin'." Others were coming.
Prudence suggested that he conceal himself in an entry across the street
and keep an eye out for the persons who were coming to visit Arima. He
assumed that their coming had something to do with the stolen paper. But
he had no way of knowing who the athlete's guests would be. There might
be no one among them whom he could recognize. And even if he saw them all
go in, how would his own purpose be served by merely watching them? In
time, no doubt, they would all come out again, and one of them would have
the papers in his possession, and Orme would not know which one.
For all he was aware, some of the guests had already arrived. They might
even now be gathering with eager eyes about the unfolded documents. No,
Orme realized that his place was not on the sidewalk. By some means he
must get where he could discover what was going on in the front flat on
the third floor. Standing where he now was, there was momentary danger of
being discovered by persons who would guess why he was there. Maku might
come.
Orme looked to see who lived in "4a," the flat above the Japanese. The
card bore the name:
"Madame Alia, Clairvoyant and Trance Medium."
"I think I will have my fortune told," muttered Orme, as he pressed
Madame Alia's bell and started up the stairs.
At the top of the second flight he looked to the entrance of the front
apartment. It had a large square of ground glass, with the name "Arima"
in black letters. He continued upward another flight and presently found
himself before two blank doors--one at the front and one a little at one
side. The side door opened slowly in response to his knock.
Before him stood a blowsy but not altogether unprepossessing woman of
middle years. She wore a cheap print gown. A gipsy scarf was thrown over
her head and shoulders, and her ears held loop earrings. Her inquiring
glance at Orme was not unmixed with suspicion.
"Madame Alia?" inquired Orme.
She nodded and stood aside for him to enter. He passed into a cheap
little reception-hall which looked out on the street, and then, at her
silent direction went through a door at one side and found himself in the
medium's sanctum.
The one window gave on a dimly lighted narrow space which apparently had
been cut in from the back of the building. Through the dusty glass he
could see the railing of a fire-escape platform, and cutting diagonally
across the light, part of the stairs that led to the platform above.
There was a closed door, which apparently opened into the outer hall. In
the room were dirty red hangings, two chairs, a couch, and a small square
center-table.
Madame Alia had already seated herself at the table and was shuffling a
pack of cards. "Fifty-cent reading?" she asked, as he took the chair
opposite her.
Orme nodded. His thoughts were on the window and the fire-escape, and he
hardly heard her monotonous sentences, though he obeyed mechanically her
instructions to cut and shuffle.
"You are about to engage in a new business," she was saying. "You will be
successful, but there will be some trouble about a dark man.--Look out
for him.--He talks fair, but he means mischief.--There is a woman,
too.--This man will try to prejudice her against you." And all the time
Orme was saying to himself, "How can I persuade her to let me use the
fire-escape?"
Suddenly he was conscious that the woman had ceased speaking and was
running the cards through her fingers and looking at him searchingly.
"You are not listening," she said, as he met her gaze.
He smiled apologetically. "I know--I was preoccupied."
"I can't help you if you don't listen."
Orme inferred that she took pride in her work. He sighed and looked
grave. "I am afraid," he said slowly, "that my case is too serious for
the cards."
She brightened. "You'd ought to have a trance-reading--two dollars."
"I'd take any kind of reading that would help me, but I'm afraid the
situation is too difficult."
"Then why did you come?" Again the look of suspicion.
"I came because you could help me, but not by a reading."
"What do you mean?" Plainly she was frightened. "I don't put people away.
That's out of my line. Honest!"
"Do I look as if I wanted anything crooked done?" Orme smiled.
"It's hard to tell what folks want," she muttered. "You're a fly-cop,
aren't you?"
"What makes you think that?"
"The way you been sizing things up. You aren't going to do anything, are
you? I pay regular for my protection every month--five dollars--and I
work hard to get it, too."
Orme hesitated. He had known at the outset that he was of a class
different from the ordinary run of her clients. The difference
undoubtedly had both puzzled and frightened her. He might disabuse her of
the notion that he had anything to do with the police, but her
misapprehension was an advantage that he was loath to lose. Fearing him,
she might grant any favor.
"Now, listen to me," he said at last. "I don't mean you any harm, but I
want you to answer a few questions."
She eyed him furtively.
"Do you know the man in the flat below?" he demanded.
"Mr. Arima? No. He's a Jap. I see him in the halls sometimes, but I don't
do no more than bow, like any neighbor."
"He's noisy, isn't he?"
"Only when he has pupils. But he goes out to do most of his teaching. Is
he wanted?"
"Not exactly. Now look here. I believe you're a well-meaning woman. Do
you make a good thing out of this business?"
"Fair." She smiled faintly. "I ain't been in Chicago long, and it takes
time to work up a good trade. I got a daughter to bring up. She's with
friends. She don't know anything about what I do for a living."
"Well," said Orme, "I'm going to give you five dollars toward educating
your girl."
He took a bill from his pocket-book and handed it to her. She accepted it
with a deprecating glance and a smile that was tinged with pathetic
coquetry. Then she looked at it strangely. "What's the writing?" she
asked.
Orme started. He had given her the marked five-dollar bill. "I didn't
mean to give you that one," he said, taking it from her fingers.
She stared at him. "Is it phony?"
"No--but I want it. Here's another." As he took a fresh bill from his
pocket-book he discovered to his surprise that the marked bill, together
with the few dollars in change he had received after his purchase in the
shop below, was all that he now had left in his pocket. He remembered
that he had intended to draw on his funds that morning. His departure
from New York had been hurried, and he had come away with little ready
cash.
Madame Alia slipped the bill into her bosom and waited. She knew well
enough that her visitor had some demand to make.
"Now," said Orme, "I am going to use your fire-escape for a little
while."
The woman nodded.
"I want you to keep all visitors out," he continued. "Don't answer the
bell. I may want to come back this way quick."
"This is straight business, isn't it? I don't want to get into no
trouble."
"Absolutely straight," said Orme. "All you have to do is to leave your
window open and keep quiet."
"You can count on me," she said. "Perhaps you know all about the place
down there, but if you don't, I'll tell you that the fire-escape leads
into his reception-room."
Orme smiled. "You seem to be acquainted with your neighbor, after all."
"I've come up the stairs when his door was open."
"Does he seem to be pretty busy with his teaching?"
"Evenings, he is. And some come in the afternoon. I always know, because
they thud on the floor so when they wrestle."
"And mornings?"
"He generally seems to be away mornings."
"I fancy he's what you'd call a noisy neighbor," said Orme.
"Oh, I don't mind. There's more or less noise up here sometimes." She
smiled frankly. "Spirits can make a lot of noise. I've known them to
throw tables over and drag chairs all around the room."
"Well"--Orme was not interested in spirits--"be sure you don't let
anybody in here until I come back."
Again she nodded. Then she went into the reception-hall and he heard her
push the bolt of the door. She did not return, but her steps seemed to
move into one of the other rooms.
Orme went to the window, pushed it up, and climbed out on the
fire-escape. He was glad to see that the wall across the court was
windowless. He might be observed from the buildings that backed up from
the next street, but they apparently belonged to a large storage loft or
factory. There were no idle folk at the windows.
The window of the room below was open. This was in one sense an
advantage--and Orme blessed the Japanese athletes for their insistence on
fresh air; but on the other hand, it made quietness essential.
Slowly he let himself through the opening in the platform and moved a few
steps down the ladder. Then he crouched and peered through the dingy lace
curtains that were swaying in the breeze.
The interior was dim, but Orme succeeded in distinguishing the furniture.
There were straw mats on the floor and several chairs stood about. At the
opposite side of the room was a closed door. From his knowledge of Madame
Alia's apartment, Orme knew that this door opened into the hall of the
building, and the square of ground glass, with its reversed letters of
the athlete's name, told him that it was used as the chief entrance.
Madame Alia preferred her clients to enter into another room.
In the farther corner of the interior Orme saw a large square table. It
was covered with a red print cloth, which hung over the edge, nearly to
the floor. If he could reach that table and conceal himself beneath it,
his position would be better.
And now he suddenly remembered that the outline of his head would be
visible against the outer light to anyone within. The room seemed to be
empty, but--at that instant he heard a door open. He drew his head up.
Someone was moving about the room.
The steps went here and there. Chairs were shifted, to judge from the
sound. But evidently there was only one person, for Orme could hear no
voices. He decided that Arima was preparing for visitors.
Again he heard a door open and close. Had Arima gone out, or had some
other person entered? Orme waited a moment, listening; no sound came from
within. He lowered his head and peered. The room was empty.
Arima might return at any moment, but the chance had to be taken.
Quickly, silently, Orme descended to the platform, slid over the sill,
and tip-toed over to the table. Another instant and he was under the
cover.