I am very fond of Esper Indiman, but there are times when he is
positively unfit for human society. Last week, for instance, when for
three days on end we did not exchange a single word, not even at
dinner, where the amenities should come on at least with the walnuts. I
grant you that humdrum wears upon the spirit, that the flatness of the
daily road may be a harder thing to get over than even Mr. Bunyan's
hill Difficulty, but for a man to surrender himself mind and body to
solitaire argues weakness. Moreover, it was a ridiculous combination of
the cards that Indiman invariably set himself to resolve; the chances
were at least a hundred to one against the solitaire coming out, and,
indeed, I never saw him get it but once. Under rather curious
circumstances, too--but I won't anticipate; let us begin with the
beginning of the adventure of the Queen of Spades.
You will remember that there was a mislaid letter whose possession had
become a matter of supreme importance to a certain great person in
Russia. The Countess Gilda (she of the Ninety-and-nine Kisses) had been
on the point of obtaining the treasure, but the over-confidence of my
friend Indiman, coupled with the blunders of a stupid detective, had
brought about a premature explosion of the train. To Indiman,
apologetic and remorseful, the Countess Gilda had vouchsafed a single
pregnant utterance--"Wait for the third appearance of the Queen of
Spades." This was his cue; let him make the most of it if he would
repair the mischief that he had unwittingly done.
Now the opera, on the night preceding the Countess's departure for
Europe, had been Tschaikowsky's "Queen of Spades"; the inference was
inevitable that here was the first materialization of our mysterious
heroine. That same evening we had encountered, at an Eighth Avenue
ball, a masker whose costume had been designed upon the familiar model
of the court-card in question; so much for number two. But Fortune had
been almost too kind, and immediately upon this promising beginning she
had withdrawn her smiles. For upward of a month nothing whatever had
happened. As I have said, Indiman played solitaire and I smoked as much
as I could. Dull work for all that it was the end of April, the height
of the Easter season, and New York was at its gayest. A brilliant
show--yes, and the same old one. Did you ever eat a quail a day for
thirty days? Why not for three hundred or three thousand days,
supposing that one is really fond of quail?
For the thirty-fifth consecutive time the solitaire failed to come out.
Indiman gathered the cards, shuffled them with infinite precision, and
handed them to me to cut. I did so. Indiman took the pack and flung it
into the air; the cards fluttered in all directions, and one came
sailing straight for my nose. I put up my hand and caught it--it was
the Queen of Spades.
"Here is the lady for the fateful third time," I remarked, jestingly.
But Indiman was nothing if not serious. He took the card from me and
studied it attentively.
"Rather an interesting face, don't you think?" he said, musingly.
"Somewhat Semitic in physiognomy, you notice; that comes from the
almond-shaped eyes and the abnormally high arch of the brows. Would you
know her in the actual flesh--say, on Broadway? Brunette, of course,
jet-black hair banded a la Merode over the ears, a little droop at the
corners of her mouth. Voila! The Queen of Spades. Let us go out and
look for her."
"A proposition," I remarked, judicially, "that savors of the rankest
lunacy. And yet, why not? The lady certainly made the advances; it is
an equivalent to an invitation to call. Pity she doesn't put her
address on her card."
"Hym!" coughed Indiman, delicately. "That is a difficulty. But not
necessarily an insurmountable one. Let us consult the street directory,
with minds open and unprejudiced, and our faith will be rewarded--doubt
it not.
"We will pass over the numbered streets and avenues," continued
Indiman. "I am not in the mood for mathematical subtleties, although
there is much of virtue in the digit 9, as every adept knows. Names are
our quest to-day, so listen to them as they run--Allen, Bleecker,
Bayard, Dey, Division--now why Division, do you suppose? What was
divided, and who got the lion's share?"
"A delicate allusion to some eighteenth-century graft," I suggested.
"Consult the antiquaries."
"Oh, it's enough for our purpose that the division itself exists; it
must lie below the 'barbed-wire fence,' somewhere across the line. To
speak precisely, Division Street appears to start at Chatham Square,
and it runs eastward to Grand Street. We will take the Third Avenue
Elevated to Chatham Square, and then ask a policeman. Nothing could be
more simple."
Descending the Elevated stairs, Division Street lay right before our
eyes, and further inquiry was superfluous. Indiman's spirits had risen
amazingly. "Why, it's only an elementary exercise," he said, smilingly.
"Divide an East Side street by a pack of cards, and the quotient is the
Queen of Spades; you simply cannot escape from the conclusion. Forward,
then."
Now, Division Street IS something out of the ordinary, as down-town
thoroughfares go. It is the principal highway to that remote Yiddish
country whose capital is William H. Seward Square, and the entire
millinery and feminine tailoring business of the lower East Side is
centred at this its upper end. In the one short block from Chatham
Square to Market Street there are twenty-seven millinery
establishments--count them for yourself--and with one exception the
other shops are devoted to the sale of cloaks and mantuas and
tailor-made gowns. All on the eastward of the street, you notice. There
is a dollar and a shilling side in Division Street, just as elsewhere.
Talk of Bond Street and Fifth Avenue! Where will you find twenty-seven
millinery shops in an almost unbroken row? What a multiplied vista of
delight for feminine eyes--hats, hats, hats, as far as the eye can
reach. Black hats and white hats; red, blue, and greenery-yallery hats;
weird creations so loaded with gimp and passementerie as to certainly
weigh a pound or more; daring confections in gauze and feathers;
parterres of exotic blooms such as no earthly garden ever held; hats
with bows on 'em and hats with birds on 'em, and hats with beasts on
'em; hats that twitter and hats that squawk; hats of lordly velvet and
hats of plebeian corduroy; felt hats, straw hats, chip hats; wide brim
and narrow brim; skewered, beribboned, bebowed--finally, again, just
hats, hats, hats, a phantasmagoria of primary colors and gewgaws and
fallalerie pure and simple, before which the masculine brain fairly
reels. But the woman contemplates the show with serenity imperturbable:
the hat she wants is here somewhere, and it is only a matter of time
and patience to find it.
There is always a Mont Blanc to overtop the lesser Alpine summits--a
Koh-i-noor in whose splendor all inferior radiance is extinguished.
Indiman touched my elbow. "Look at that one," he murmured.
Now that WAS a hat. To describe it--but let me first bespeak the
indulgence of my feminine readers. I am not an authority upon
hats--most distinctly not; and I shall probably display my ignorance
with the first word out of my mouth. But what matter. I am simply
trying to tell of what these poor mortal eyes have seen.
In effect, then, the foundation of the hat appeared to be a black
straw, with a wide, straight brim, the trimming being a gimcrackery
sort of material whose name for the moment has escaped me. Suppose we
call it barege, and let it go at that? The principal ornament was a
large, red apple in wax, pierced by a German-silver arrow, but the
really unique feature of the entire creation was the parasol-like
fringe that depended from the edge of the brim, a continuous row of
four-inch filaments upon which shining black beads were closely strung.
An over-bold device, perhaps, but it certainly caught the eye; there
was a barbaric suggestion in those strings of glittering beads that
made one think of the Congo and of tomtoms beating brazenly in the
moonlight. A hat that WAS a hat, as I have previously remarked, and
Indiman and I gazed upon it with undisguised interest. It is hardly
necessary to add that this particular hat had the place of honor in the
shop-window, it being mounted upon the waxen model of a simpering lady
with flaxen curls and a complexion incomparable. Assuredly, then, the
pearl of the collection.
"L. Hernandez," said Indiman, reading the sign over the door. "Spanish
Jew, I should say. Yes, and the Queen of Spades in person," he added,
in an undertone, for L. Hernandez was standing in the open door-way of
the shop and regarding us with a curious fixity of glance.
Now, through the summer-time it is the custom of the Division Street
modistes to occupy seats placed on the sidewalk. In a business where
competition is so strenuous one must be prepared to catch the customer
on the hop. Even in winter the larger establishments will keep a scout
on duty outside, and the lesser proprietor must, at least, cast an
occasional eye to windward, if the balance of trade is to be preserved.
Undoubtedly Madame Hernandez was taking a purely business observation,
and we had chanced to fall within its focus.
The resemblance was, indeed, striking. There was the banded hair over
the eyes, the slightly drooping mouth, the peculiar upspring of the
eyebrow arch--the Queen of Spades in person, as Indiman had said. And
this was her third appearance.
Indiman removed his hat with a sweep. "Madame," he said, with elaborate
civility, "it is a beautiful day."
"What of it?" retorted L. Hernandez, ungraciously enough. "Or perhaps
the sun isn't shining above Madison Square," she added, sarcastically.
A strange voice this, raucous in quality and abnormally low in pitch.
"I haven't noticed," said Indiman, with undisturbed good-humor. "Alike
upon the just and unjust, you know. Now if you will kindly allow me to
pass--"
"What do you want in my shop?"
"I desire to purchase that hat," replied Indiman, and pointed to the
atrocity in the window.
"It is not for sale."
"I am prepared to pay liberally for what strikes my fancy." He took out
a roll of bills.
"The hat is not for sale."
"Madame," said Indiman, with the utmost suavity, "are you in business
for your health?"
"I am."
"Oh, in that case--"
"You may come inside; it tires me to be on my feet for so long. To my
sorrow I grow stout."
"It is an affliction," murmured Indiman, sympathetically. We followed
her within. The shop was crammed from floor to ceiling with bandboxes
arranged in three or four rows, and glazed presses, filled with
feminine hats and bonnets, lined the walls. Near the window was a small
counter, behind which Madame L. Hernandez immediately installed
herself, and from this vantage-point she proceeded to inspect us with
cool deliberation, fanning herself the while with a huge palm-leaf.
"You wish to buy a hat?" she said, tentatively.
"That one," answered Indiman, stubbornly "--that hat on the model's
head."
"Bah! Senor, it is fatiguing to fight, like children, with pillows in
the dark. You want that Russian letter. Why not say so?"
For a full half-minute their eyes met in silent thrust and parry; it
was to be a duel, then, and each was an antagonist to be respected.
"If it is a question of money--" said Indiman, slowly.
"It is not."
"Then I must take it where I find it."
"So it appears," answered L. Hernandez, placidly. "But you must first
find it. Eh, my bold young man?"
"Be tranquil, madame--"
"I am tranquil. You are but wasting your time."
"I have it to spend in unlimited quantity. I am a solitaire-player."
"Oh, you play solitaire. How many variations do you know?"
"One hundred and thirty-five."
"I can count one hundred and forty-two."
"Including the 'Bridge'?"
"The famous 'Bridge'! Do you know it, then?"
"I learned it from a Polish gentleman in Belgrade."
"It is difficult."
"Enormously so. It may come out once in a hundred times."
Madame L. Hernandez produced a pack of cards from underneath the
counter. "Will you oblige me, senor? I am anxious to see the play."
Indiman proceeded with the explanation. It was too intricate for me to
follow. I could only understand that, with the solitaire properly
resolved, the cards should finally divide themselves into four packs,
headed respectively by the ace of clubs, king of diamonds, queen of
spades, and knave of hearts. Indiman tried it twice, but the
combination would not come out.
"We will try it again to-morrow," said Indiman, rising.
"With pleasure. Good-day, gentlemen. Mind the step."
As we walked towards Chatham Square a stout man joined us, a man with
one ear noticeably larger than the other. "Mr. Indiman--" he began,
deferentially.
"What, you, Brownson?"
"Yes, sir. I have an assignment on this job from the Central Office. I
saw you coming out of L. Hernandez's just now. Smooth old bird, ain't
it?"
"You on this case?" said Indiman, stupefied.
"Yes, sir. You see, the parties concerned finally determined to put it
into our hands, and they'd have been enough sight better off if they'd
done it in the beginning. Bless you! it's no great shakes of a lay-out.
There's the letter--a single sheet of note-paper written in violet ink
on one side only, and we know the party who has it up her sleeve. L.
Hernandez--I don't mind saying it, seeing that you're also on. I'll do
the trick within three days, or you can boil my head for a corned-beef
dinner."
"Well, good luck to you, Brownson," said Indiman, absently. There was a
cab-rank here in Chatham Square, and we drove up-town to the Utinam
Club for a late luncheon. While we were waiting for our filet to be
prepared Indiman wrote a brief note and had it despatched by messenger;
it was addressed, as he showed me, to Madame L. Hernandez,--Division
Street. "I'm not going to have that booby upset the apple-cart for a
second time," he said, savagely. "Now we shall have to wait for at
least three days."
This was on Monday; on Friday we presented ourselves again to Madame L.
Hernandez. She received us politely, almost graciously; she sat in the
great chair behind the counter, engaged in the truly feminine
occupation of putting up her hair in curl-papers. A pad of stiff, white
writing-paper lay on the counter before her, and from it she tore the
strips as she needed them.
"I am tired of these bandeaux," she explained, smilingly. "My friends
tell me that curls will become me infinitely better."
"Your friends have reason," acquiesced Indiman; "but tell me, madame,
did you receive my note?"
"I did, senor, and I return you a thousand thanks. Ah, how these pigs
of detectives have tortured me!--you would never believe it. Twice my
apartments, at the back there, have been entered and ransacked from end
to end; I even suffered the indignity of being personally searched by a
dreadful newspaper woman who had answered my advertisement for
'Improvers Wanted.' Chloroformed in broad daylight in my own house!"
"But they didn't get the letter?"
"I was not born yesterday, senor."
"Good!" said Indiman, heartily. "What imbeciles policemen can be!"
"What, indeed! Behold, senor, I show you the ruin wrought by these
swine. This way."
L. Hernandez rose, waddled stiffly to the back room, and threw open the
door. "There!" she exclaimed, dramatically.
Evidently these were the lady's living apartments--a bed-chamber and a
smaller room at the left, in which were a gas-range and some smaller
culinary apparatus. It was plain that the intruders had made thorough
work in their search. The carpet had been removed and the flooring
partially torn up; the walls had been sounded for secret receptacles,
the pictures stripped of their backing, and the chairs and bedstead
pulled half to pieces. "Not a square inch of anything have they left
unprobed by their accursed needles," said L. Hernandez, furiously. "It
will take me a month, stiff as I am, to get things to rights."
"An outrage!" said Indiman, soothingly. "Shall we have a try at
crossing the 'Bridge'?" And forthwith they sat down to the great
solitaire with the utmost amity. But again it did not come out; the
combinations were insoluble.
The next day we paid another visit to L. Hernandez.
"The curl-papers do not seem to be very effective," remarked Indiman,
glancing at the familiar smooth bands of hair drawn straight down from
the forehead and over the ears.
"Ah, these wretched bandeaux!" sighed madame; "they are intractable. I
shall have to wear my curl-papers by day as well as by night. Excuse
me, gentlemen, for a few minutes," and she disappeared into the back
room, to shortly reappear with the rebellious bands tightly swathed in
a dozen little rolls of twisted paper. "Again the impassable 'Bridge,'"
she said, gayly, and the pair wrestled half a dozen times with the
problem--of course, unsuccessfully.
On the following day the comedy was repeated.
"Madame," said Indiman, gravely, "you have again forgotten your
curl-papers."
"Senor, my memory is undoubtedly failing; I go to repair the omission."
Re-enter madame in curl-papers, and then the "Bridge" as before; da
capo for a week on end.
"It seems impossible to get that accursed combination," said Indiman,
and he threw down the cards. Madame L. Hernandez smiled, and there was
a little silence.
"Madame," said Indiman.
"Senor."
"You are not treating me fairly. You have allowed those stupid
detectives to search your apartments, and I demand an equal privilege."
"You shall have it, senor. I am going to make a complaint of the affair
at Police Headquarters. Perhaps Senor Thorp will kindly accompany me?"
"Excellent! I will remain here, and if the letter is within these four
walls I shall find it."
"My best wishes, senor."
I called a coach. Madame arrayed herself in a fur cloak and crowned
herself, curl-papers and all, with that atrocious hat from the window
stock, a grotesque figure of a woman in all conscience. But I had
nerved myself for the ordeal, and we drove away amid the jeers and
laughter of the street crowd. In an hour we returned. Indiman was
placidly smoking and working on his solitaire.
"You were successful, senor?"
"No, but I have hopes."
"Ah! Well, good-day, gentlemen. Come again."
"Of course there was nothing," said Indiman to me as we drove home. "I
even went through every bandbox."
"Yet you have hopes?"
"Yes."
It was the second day following, and we were calling again upon L.
Hernandez. There was the usual badinage about the curl-papers, and
madame retired to her private apartments, carefully closing the door
behind her.
"Now!" said Indiman. Hastily he pulled forward a cheval-glass, placing
it upon a particular spot and tilting the mirror to a certain exact
angle. When finally it was adjusted to his satisfaction, he motioned to
me to come and look. In the mirror was plainly visible a vertically
reversed reflection of L. Hernandez. Standing in front of a long
dressing-glass in her bedroom, she deliberately removed her chevelure
in its entirety and tossed it on the table. It was a wig, then; but I
was hardly prepared for the secret that it had concealed--for the
close-cropped head, with its straw-colored hair, was unmistakably that
of a man.
"Look! look!" whispered Indiman.
From a drawer L. Hernandez had taken a second wig already furnished
with curl-papers; the adjustment took but a minute or two; the door
opened, and she reappeared, ready for the inevitable solitaire.
On the way home that night Indiman stopped at Police Headquarters, but
he did not see fit to make the nature of his inquiries known to me. On
the subject of the apparition in the mirror, however, he was more
communicative.
"As you know," he said, "the partition that divides madame's private
apartments from the shop does not extend to the ceiling; there is a gap
of some three feet. I had previously noticed the cheval-glass in the
bedroom; it was a natural presumption that L. Hernandez would take her
stand in front of it while engaged in making her toilet. Now this glass
is tilted at a sharp angle, and consequently the reflection must be
projected upward to a particular point on the ceiling. Supposing a
small looking-glass to be fixed at this point, the rays impinging upon
it will be cast downward and ON OUR SIDE OF THE PARTITION, for the
angle of reflection is always equal to that of incidence. We have,
therefore, only to place in position a second cheval-glass, arranged at
the proper inclination, to obtain a reproduction of the original image,
although, of course, it will appear to us as upside-down. I have only
to add that the day you escorted madame to Police Headquarters I took
the opportunity to fasten a small mirror on the ceiling, trusting that
it would not be noticed. Nor was it; the trap worked perfectly--an
optical siphon, as it may be called--and the secret was mine."
"And now?"
"Wait until to-morrow," said Indiman.
For the fiftieth time the game of solitaire was in progress, and on
this occasion it seemed as though the combinations were actually coming
out. Remember, that in the final fall of the cards it was necessary
that they should be in four packs, headed by the ace of clubs, king of
diamonds, queen of spades, and knave of hearts. Already the first two
ranks had been completed; it all depended upon the disposition of the
few remaining cards.
"The queen of spades is buried," said L. Hernandez, with a sneer. "You
have failed again."
"I think not," replied Indiman, calmly. "I am sure that the last card
is the knave of hearts." This was my cue. I stepped to the door and
made an imperceptible signal to Brownson, who, with two other
plain-clothes men, was lounging in a door-way across the street. They
seemed eternally slow in obeying; I felt the muscles in my throat
contracting with nervous excitement as I turned again to watch the
solitaire.
But two cards remained to be played; they lay face downward upon the
table. If the upper one were the queen of spades, the packets would be
completed in their proper order and the solitaire would be made; if it
were the knave of hearts, the game would again be lost. Slowly--oh, so
slowly--Indiman turned the first card.
"Knave!" shouted L. Hernandez, exultingly. Then she stopped and went
white. It was not the knave of hearts, but the queen of spades, and
over it had been pasted a small carte-de-visite photograph--that of a
man dressed in the coarse uniform of one of the Russian penal
settlements. With lightning swiftness Indiman leaned forward and
twitched the wig from L. Hernandez's head; the man himself sat there
before our eyes.
Brownson and his bull-dogs stood at the door, revolvers in hand. But
there was no need. The squat, ungainly figure had fallen forward upon
the counter, crushing the horrible nightmare of a hat of which I have
so often spoken, and which, quite by chance, as it seemed, had been
lying there. Brownson sprang forward and raised the limp body. The red,
waxen apple had been broken into a dozen pieces. Among them lay the
fragments of a fragile glass phial, and the smell of almonds was in the
air.
"Prussic acid," said Brownson, sententiously. "He wasn't the kind to be
taken alive."
Indiman mechanically turned over the last card; it was the knave of
hearts, and the famous solitaire of the "Bridge" had been made at last.
He slipped the cards into his pocket and rose to go. "Brownson," he
said, with a little catch in his voice, "I didn't think that it would
come to this, but it had to be, I suppose. Have him put away decently,
and send the account to me."
"Very good, sir. But ain't it a pity about that letter. However, we can
take a good look now, and maybe we'll turn it up yet."
"Perhaps so," said Indiman.
"His real name was Gribedyoff, and he was implicated in the
assassination of Prince Trapasky," said Indiman to me as we sat over
our cigars that night. "A desperate fellow, one of the 'Blacks,' you
know. I picked his picture out in a moment at Police Headquarters,
after seeing his reflection in the mirror. I knew it was necessary to
surprise him, and so I borrowed the photograph and used it to
transmogrify the queen of spades card. Just for an instant he lost his
nerve, but that was enough."
"But, as Brownson said, how about the letter?"
Indiman drew from his pocket the wig, to which the curl-papers were
still attached. He unrolled one and showed it to me. I could see that
the strip was written in French on one side of the paper and in violet
ink. "It will be easy enough to piece it together again," he said.
"Plain enough now, isn't it, why L. Hernandez cared not at all how
often Brownson's men rummaged table-drawers and chair-seats. The letter
was safe until the time should come to use it. Only it never came."
"I suppose you are going abroad?"
"I shall sail Thursday."
"And you will be gone how long?"
"That depends, doesn't it, upon the pleasure of that most gracious lady
the Countess Gilda. I may be back in a fortnight, and in that case I
will make an engagement with you. We will take a ride together on a
trolley-car."
"Agreed," said I.
It was a warm afternoon in the middle of May, and I was lounging in the
deserted common room of the Utinam Club when Esper Indiman walked in.
We shook hands.
"You landed to-day?" I asked.
"Yes, by the Deutschland."
It was impossible for me to utter the inquiry that rose to my lips.
Indiman hesitated just a trifle, then he went on:
"I delivered my letter to the Countess, and she was most obliged. She
asked me to stay on, but I had a previous engagement to plead: you
remember that I had agreed to go on a trolley-ride on or about this
date?"
"I remember," I answered. "Let us interview Oscar, then, upon the
subject of dinner; it will be cooler up at Thirty-fourth Street.
Afterwards we will have our adventure on the trolley."
Well, we went and had our dinner, but, as you shall see, the
trolley-ride had to be indefinitely postponed. We had started down
Fifth Avenue, and near Madison Square we ran squarely into Indiman's
cousin, George Estes. He was standing near a brilliantly illumined
shop-window, and gazing intently at a small object that lay in the
hollow of his hand.
"Oh, it's you," he said, absently. Then, with a little laugh, "What do
you think of this?" He held out to us a small button fashioned of some
semiprecious stone like Mexican opal; it glowed with an elusive reddish
lustre.
"It looks almost alive," commented Indiman.
"The vital spark, eh? Well, you're not so far out, for it means a man's
life."
"What is it, George?" asked Indiman, gravely.
"Not to-night, old chap. It may be a mistake--probably is. Or say that
I was kidding you."
"That won't do, George. You've said both too much and too little. Cab
there!" he called, and a hansom drew up to the curb.
"You'll excuse me, Thorp--a family affair." He motioned to the boy to
enter; he obeyed, sulkily enough, and they drove off.