It is not every day in the week that a hand-organ plays "Celeste Aida"
under one's window with an F natural in the third bar where the music
rightfully calls for F sharp. Nor is it usual to send out a quarter of
a dollar to the man as an inducement for him to retire, and then to
receive in return a New York Central baggage-check numbered 18329, and
reading from Cleveland to New York. Esper Indiman and I exchanged
smiles.
"This looks like the real thing," said my friend. "My dear Thorp, there
must be some rare element in your chemical make-up that serves to
precipitate these delightful mysteries. Adventures fairly flock about
us. We shall have to screen the doors and windows or be overwhelmed.
Seriously, I am infinitely obliged to you, for I had started on my
eleventh game of solitaire, and was beginning to feel a trifle bored.
But now--now there is something doing, as Mr. Devery would remark. Let
us start the ball rolling by giving Bolder the third degree."
Bolder, recalled, was disposed to be cheerfully communicable. Certainly
he would know the man again; he had a good look at him. The sun was
shining brightly, and it had fallen full on the fellow's face.
"Describe him, then," said Indiman, note-book in hand.
Put to the test, Bolder was not so good a witness as we had hoped for;
he wandered and grew confused in his statements. Light hair? Yes, it
might have been that--though, now that he thought of it, the shade was
rather on the darkish order. An old man? Well, not noticeably so;
perhaps thirty-five or a little younger.
"Or a little older--say fifty-five?"
"Well, it might have been fifty-five, sir. I couldn't swear to it
exactly."
"That will do, Bolder," said Indiman, and our witness retired abashed.
"Check number one," commented Indiman. "Suppose we try the Grand
Central now. We won't take out the carriage; the day is fine and I want
the walk."
It was a beautiful morning in August, cool and clear, and we strode
along briskly. A hand-organ began playing in a side street, and we
stopped to listen. "It's the same aria," I said, excitedly--"'Celeste
Aida.' What tremendous luck! No, it isn't; deuce take it!" I went on,
dejectedly.
"But you just said it was the same," persisted Indiman.
"With a difference," I hastened to explain. Now, Indiman is not
musical, and I had some trouble in convincing him that within the
compass of a semitone a veritable gulf may yawn. This particular organ
played the phrase in the third bar correctly--F sharp and not F
natural--and consequently it could not be the same instrument that had
vexed my ears half an hour ago at No. 4020 Madison Avenue.
"There is a real difference, then?" said Indiman, thoughtfully. "One
that you would recognize again?"
"At any place or time," I answered, confidently. "It is an absolute
means of identification, quite as much so as a glass eye would be in a
man's face."
"Very good. We'll find that hand-organ, then, if we have to go through
'Little Italy' with a drag-net. How beautifully the problem is working
out!--almost too beautifully."
At the incoming baggage-room Indiman presented the check numbered
18329. A porter appeared with a large trunk loaded on a truck. "City
transfer?" he asked.
"No, I'll take it with me," said Indiman. "Thorp, will you get a hack."
We were about to drive off, and I felt for my match-box. Provoking! I
must have left it at home, and I wanted a cigarette. "One moment," I
called, and jumped out, having caught sight of Ellison, who had been
with me in college. He was hurrying into the station. I should be glad
to have a word with him and secure a match at the same time. But
somehow I missed him in making my way through the swinging doors.
Ellison was nowhere to be seen, and I had to content myself with
getting a light at the cigar counter. I went back to the carriage and
climbed in.
"It was Ellison," I explained. "A good chap, and I should have liked to
meet him."
"Some other time, perhaps," said Indiman, politely, and we drove off.
"So you've got it," I said, staring up at the trunk that occupied the
box at the hackman's left. "It looks ordinary enough."
"The porter told me that it came in last night on the Lake Shore
Limited," said Indiman. "Nothing remarkable about that, either."
A sudden thought struck me. "By Jove! we're no better than thieves," I
said, frowningly. "The possession of a baggage-check doesn't
necessarily carry with it the ownership of the parcel for which it
calls. The rightful proprietor may be even now at the Grand Central
explaining the loss of the check and trying to identify his property."
Indiman looked a little blank. "Of course, your obvious theory may be
the true one," he said, slowly. "The hunting of mare's-nests is a
weakness of mine. But what are you about there?"
"Telling the driver to take us back to the station," I answered, with
my hand on the check-cord.
"I don't know about doing that--just now. There might be some awkward
explanations to make to your hypothetical owner. Or, failing him, to
the police."
"It doesn't absolutely follow," he continued, "that there is an owner
or that he is anxious to claim and recover his property. He may have
substantial reasons for wanting to get rid of it. Remember that the
baggage-check was handed in at my door with the express direction that
it was to be given to the gentleman of the house. We'll have to see it
through, I think."
I had nothing more to say, and shortly afterwards we pulled up at No.
4020 Madison Avenue. Bolder and the hackman carried the trunk in, and
Indiman directed that it should be placed in the library, the front
room on the first landing. The cabman was paid and dismissed, and we
were left alone.
"Now for it," said Indiman, gayly. "I have always preferred mutton to
lamb."
The trunk was of the cheap variety, covered with brown paper that
vaguely simulated leather. It was perfectly new, and this was probably
its first trip on the road. The lock was of simple construction. It
should be easy to find a key to fit it, and one of mine, with a little
filing, did the trick. The bolt shot back, and Indiman unhesitatingly
threw up the lid.
There was no tray in the trunk, and the interior space was filled with
some bulky article that had been carefully shrouded by manifold layers
of cloth wrappings. I know that the same thought was in both our minds,
but neither of us spoke. A keen-bladed ink-eraser lay on the desk
before me, and I handed it to Indiman. He made a swift cut in the
wrappings and drew the severed edges apart--a naked human foot
protruded. To this hour I have only to shut my eyes to immediately
recall that horrid vision. I remember particularly the purplish hue of
the swollen veins, the unmistakable rigidity of the joints and muscles.
Indiman shut down the lid and turned the key in the lock. We looked,
white-faced, one at the other, then at the maid-servant who stood not
ten feet away. Had she been any nearer?
"What is it, Mary?" said Indiman, sharply.
The girl, confused and stammering, explained that she had come in to
sweep; she had no idea that Mr. Indiman was in the library. No, the
door was not locked, and she had just that moment walked in. Indiman
cut short her apologies, and, with a tolerable assumption of
indifference, dismissed her to her duties elsewhere.
"Unfortunate," he remarked, with a frown.
"I doubt if she could have seen anything," I answered, reassuringly. "I
should have heard her if she had come any nearer, and the trunk was
only open for a second or two."
"Quite long enough for anything to happen," said Indiman. "I say,
Thorp, but this is a go," he went on, cockily enough. Then suddenly the
steadiness went out of his voice, like a match-light in a high wind,
and he finished with a little, choking gasp, "Just the very--rummest
go."
I don't remember that we had a drink on the strength of it, but it's
more than probable. Then we sat down to consider.
The natural, the obvious, and the only proper course of action was to
go at once to Police Headquarters and make a frank statement of the
case with its attendant circumstances. True, we were undistinguished
citizens, with neither pull nor influence, but surely respectability
must count for something, even as against charges of admitted theft and
suspected murder. If we owned up now we should be subjected, doubtless,
to more or less annoyance growing out of the affair, but the position
would be infinitely less difficult than if we waited for events to
force it upon us. "Murder will out," I quoted.
"So they say," answered Indiman, and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.
And yet in the end we abandoned this eminently sane conclusion,
deciding that we would keep our own counsel and let the matter work
itself out. For such a crime as murder does not end with the actual
deed; the rupturing of the thousand and one ties that bind even the
most insignificant of lives to the general body of human existence
cannot be accomplished without some disturbance; a circle has myriad
points, and at any one of them the interrupted current may again begin
to flow. Perchance the message falls upon indifferent ears or is too
feeble and incoherent in itself to compel attention. In this event the
signals must necessarily grow weaker and more infrequent until they
finally cease altogether--the crime is now an accomplished fact, the
chapter is finally closed. Or, again, the call may come as plangent and
insistent as the stroke of a fire-alarm; the whole community hears and
instantly understands; the murder is out.
Now either of us could presume to measure the precise quality of odic
force inherent in the grisly mystery that lay under our hand; the
affair might range from the dignity of a cause celebre to the
commonplace of a purely commercial transaction--the economical
transportation of a medical college "subject." It was this very
uncertainty that fascinated our imaginations and so allowed the sober
judgment to be deposed. Our ostensible argument was that the police
would be sure to make a mess of the affair. If that idiot, Detective
Brownson, took hold of it, the goddess Justice might throw up her hands
as well as close her eyes. And inwardly we desired to cherish our
secret out of the same sense of fearful joy with which one listens to a
ghost story--we had tasted the coal-black wine pressed from forbidden
grapes, and we craved a yet deeper draught. Finally, a connoisseur does
not willingly relinquish a good find, whatever the circumstances; there
are bibliomaniacs who will not hesitate to steal what they may not
otherwise procure. I myself know a charming woman who collects Japanese
sword-guards AT ANY COST (I have her husband's authority for this
statement).
But, seriously again, the grip of the mystery was upon us; the
inclination had become irresistible to see the thing out, or at least
to let it run a little further, just as a child amuses itself with
fire--the desire to see what will happen. Later on it might be
necessary to pull up sharply, but the contingency would doubtless
provide for itself. The ultimate fact remained that here was a genuine
adventure, and as connoisseurs of romance we were bound to exploit it
to the utmost limit of our ability. So be it, then.
"The finding of that organ-grinder is our first and obvious procedure,"
said Indiman, slowly. "And the clew to his identity lies, as you have
explained, in his instrument."
"The organ itself is a criminal; it murders 'Celeste Aida.'"
"I believe that most of these instruments are rented from one company,"
continued Indiman. "We can find out definitely at the city License
Bureau, and we might as well make that the starting-point of our
investigations. We have plenty of time before luncheon; it is barely
twelve o'clock."
"But shouldn't we begin with--with the thing itself," I objected, and
glanced nervously at the big trunk standing in the middle of the floor.
The identity of the victim--it may be possible to establish it--a most
important point, surely."
"I'll have to pass up that part of it--at least for the present," said
Indiman, frankly. "But we must get the box out of sight somewhere. The
weather"--and here he gave a little involuntary shudder--"is getting
warmer. We'd better get it down into the cellar. I'll see if the way is
clear."
The servants were all busy in the upper part of the house, and we
succeeded in getting the trunk down into the cellar unobserved, stowing
it away temporarily in an empty coal-bin. On our way up-stairs we
encountered the maid, Mary, and something in the hasty way in which she
stood back to let us pass stirred again my vague suspicions. But there
was nothing to say or do; we must trust to luck.
Then there was no difficulty in finding the office of the company that
leases hand-organs to itinerant musicians, and the manager, an
Americanized Italian, was most courteous in answering our inquiries. It
appeared that this particular aria of "Celeste Aida" was only included
in the repertoire of some half-dozen of the older instruments. It
chanced that they were all in stock at the present time, and it would
be no trouble at all to let us hear them play. "Our incomparable
maestro--he is no longer remembered," said the manager, mournfully.
"The public--now it is that they demand what you calla hot
stuff--'Loosianner Loo' and the 'Lobster Intermezzo,' Per Bacco! if
they would but open their ears--la--la--there it goes--
'"Ce-le-ste A-i-da, For-ma di-vi-na'--