The volume was a loose-leaf diary, with each page dated, and of letter
size. It covered more than the current year, however, running back for
nearly eighteen months. It was as scrupulously edited as a lawyer's
engagement book, and curiously enough it was entirely written in
typewriting!
Most surprising of all, however, was the curious code in which the
entire matter was transcribed,--the most unusual one which Shirley had
ever read.
Here was the first page to which he opened, letter for letter and symbol
for symbol:
“THURSDAY: JANUARY SEVENTH, 1915.
;rstmrfagtp,ansmlafrav;rudyrtaftreadocayjpi
dsmfaoma,ptmomha,pmlassdohmrfaypayscoae
ptlagptayrsadjomrasddohmrfagocahrmrsypta
,sthoragsotgscafsyraeoyjafrav;rudyrtasyagobra
djomrasmfalprajse;ruavobrtomhas,rakslras
smffanrmasddohmrfan;svlavstagpta,raqsofaqj
o;apmrajimftrfavpbrtomhadqrvos; aeptlakpn
agomodjrfatobrtdofraftobrasyarohjyoayjotfad ocadjstqafrqpdoyr
famohjyasmfaffuagpitayjpi dsmfadsgrafrqpdoyagogyrrmajimftrfa;
rmyaf p;;ua,stopmayepajimfrtgptaftrddagptaqstyua
eoyjabsmv;rgyamrcyasgyrtmppmasfbsmvrfad jomrapmrayjpidsm
daypavpbrtapqyopmapga usvjyadimnrs, aqsofaypantplrtayjsyamohjyapt
frfaqtpbodop,dayr;rqjpmragptausvjyayepa,p myjabtiodra,
pmlasddohmrdagptkpnamrcyafs uasfbs mvrfadjomragojimftrfapmasvvpimyae
ptlapmaer;;omhypmadrtts;a,syyrtatrqsitdan; svla,svjomra”
and so it ran on, baffling and inspiring a headache!
Shirley went over and over the lines of this bewildering phalanx of
letters with no reward for his absorbed devotion to the puzzle.
“Let me see,” he mused. “Thursday, January seventh, was the date upon
which Washington Serral was murdered, according to Doctor MacDonald. Any
man who will maintain a record of the days in such a difficult code as
this must not only be extremely methodical, but is certain to have much
to put upon that record worth the trouble. Here may lay the secret of
the entire case.”
At the end of the hour he had allowed himself, there was no more
proximity to solution than at the inception of his effort. It was
almost half-past eleven, and he knew that it was time to go to Warren's
apartment. He sent a messenger with the book, carefully wrapped up, to
his rooms at the club on Forty-fourth Street. It was too interesting
a document to risk taking up to that apartment again, after Helene's
exertions in obtaining it.
The Somerset was not dissimilar from the hundreds of highly embellished
dwellings of the sort which abound in the region of the Park, causing
out-of-town visitors to marvel justly at the source of the vast sums of
money with which to pay the enormous rentals of them all.
The elevator operator smirked knowingly, when he asked for Warren's
apartment. “You-all can go right up, boss. He's holdin' forth for
another of dem high sassiety shindigs to-night. Dat gemman alluz has too
many callin' to bother with the telephone when he has a party. You don't
need no announcin'.”
The man directed him to the door on the left. Closed as it was the
sounds of merrymaking emanated into the corridor. Shirley's pressure
on the bell was answered by Shine Taylor's startled face. Warren stood
behind him. The surprise of the pair amused Shirley, but their composure
bespoke trained self-control.
“I'm sorry to be late,” was the criminologist's greeting. “But I came
up to apologize for not being able to bring Miss Marigold. We missed
connections somewhere, and I couldn't find her.”
“I am so pleased to have you with us anyway. We'll try to get along
without her--” but Warren was interrupted to his discomfiture.
A silvery laugh came from the hallway behind him. Helene Marigold waved
a champagne glass at Shirley.
“There's my tardy escort now. I'm here, Shirley old top! Te, he! You see
I played a little joke on you this afternoon and eloped with a handsomer
man than you.” She leaned unsteadily against the door post and waved
a white hand at him as she coaxed. “Come on in, old dear, and don't be
cross now with your little Bonbon Tootems!”
Taylor and Warren exchanged glances, for this was an unexpected sally.
But they were prompt in their effusive cordiality, as they assisted
Shirley in removing his overcoat, and hanging his hat with those of the
other guests. He placed his cane against the hall tree, and followed his
host into the jollified apartment. He did not overlook the swift glide
of Shine's hand into each of his overcoat pockets in the brief interval.
Here was a skilful “dip”--Shirley, however, had taken care that the
pickpocket would find nothing to worry him in the overcoat.
Warren's establishment was a gorgeous one. To Shirley it was hard to
harmonize the character of the man as he had already deduced it with
the evident passion for the beautiful. That such a connoisseur of art
objects could harbor in so broad and cultured a mind the machinations
of such infamy seemed almost incredible. The riddle was not new with
Reginald Warren's case: for morals and “culture” have shown their
sociological, economic and even diplomatic independence of each other
from the time when the memory of man runneth not!
Shirley's admiration was shrewdly sensed by his host. So after a tactful
introduction to the self-absorbed merrymakers, now in all stages of
stimulated exuberance, he conducted his guest on a tour of inspection
about his rooms.
“So, you like etchings? I want you to see my five Whistlers. Here is my
Fritz Thaulow, and there is my Corot. This crayon by Von Lenbach is a
favorite of mine.” His black eyes sparkled with pride as he pointed
out one gem after another in this veritable storehouse of artistic
surprises. Few of the jolly throng gave evidence of appreciating them:
the man was curiously superior to his associations in education as well
as the patent evidence which Shirley now observed of being to the manor
born. Helene Marigold, ensconced in a big library chair, her feet curled
under her, pink fingers supporting the oval chin, dreamily watched
Shirley's absorption. She seemed almost asleep, but her mind drank in
each mood that fired the criminologist's face, as he thoroughly relaxed
from his usual bland superiority of mien, to revel in the treasures.
Ivory masterpieces, Hindu carvings, bronzes, landscapes, rare wood-cuts,
water colors--such a harmonious variety he had seldom seen in any
private collection. The library was another thesaurus: rich bindings
encased volumes worthy of their garb. The books, furthermore, showed the
mellowing evidence of frequent use; here was no patron of the instalment
editions-de-luxe!
“You like my things,” and Warren's voice purred almost happily. There
was a softening change in his attitude, which Shirley understood. The
appreciation of a fellow worshiper warmed his heart. “My books--all
bound privately, you know, for I hate shop bindings. Most of them from
second-hand stalls, redolent with the personalities of half a hundred
readers. Books are so much more worth reading when they have been read
and read again. Don't you think so?”
“Yes. I see your tastes run to the modern school. Individualism,
even morbidity: Spencer, Nietsche, Schopenhauer, Tolstoi, Kropotkin,
Gorky--They express your thoughts collectively?”
“Yes, but not radically enough. My entire intellectual life has driven
me forward--I am a disciple of the absolute freedom, the divinity of
self, and--but there I invited you to a joy party, not a university
seminar.”
“But the party will grow riper with age,” and Shirley was prone to
continue the autopsy. “You are a university man. Where did you study?”
“Sipping here and there,” and a forgivable vanity lightened Warren's
face. “Gottingen, Warsaw, Jena, Oxford, Milan, The Sorbonne and even at
Heidelberg, the jolly old place. You see my scar?” He pulled back a lock
of his wavy black hair from the left temple to show a cut from a student
duelist's sword. “But you Americans--I mean, we Americans--we have such
opportunities to pick up the best things from the rest of the world.”
“No, Warren,” and Shirley shook his head, not overlooking the slight
break which indicated that his host was a foreigner, despite the quick
change. “I have been to busy wasting time to collect anything but
fleeting memories. Too much polo, swimming, yachting, golfing--I have
fallen into evil ways. I think your example may reform me. You must dine
with me at my club some day, and give me some hints about making such
wonderful purchases.”
“I know the most wonderful antique shop,” Warren began, and just then
was interrupted by Shine Taylor and a dizzy blonde person with whom he
maxixed through the Hindu draperies, each deftly balancing a champagne
glass.
“Here, Reg, you neglect your other guests. Come on in!” Shine's
companion held out a wine glass to Warren, but her eyes were fixed in a
fascinated stare upon Montague Shirley.
“Why, what are you doing here?”
It was little Dolly Marion, Van Cleft's companion on the fatal
automobile ride. She trembled: the glass fell to the floor with a tinkly
crash. Shirley smiled indulgently. Taylor and Warren exchanged looks,
but Monty knew that they must by this time be aware of his command to
the girl to abstain from gay associations.
“You couldn't resist the call of the wild, could you, Miss Dolly?”
The girl sheepishly giggled, and danced out of the room, to sink into a
chair, wondering what this visitation meant. Another masculine butterfly
pressed more champagne upon her, and in a few moments she had forgotten
to worry about anything more important than the laws of gravity. Warren
had been rudely dragged away from his intellectual kinship with his
guest. His manner changed, almost indefinably, but Shirley understood.
He looked at Helene, a little bundle of sleepy sweetness in the big
chair.
“Well, Miss! Where did you go when I left you on my call of condolence
to Howard Van Cleft? He leaves town to-night for a trip on his yacht,
and it was my last chance to say good-bye.”
“Where is he going?” was Warren's lapsus linguae, at this bit of news.
“Down to the Gulf, I believe. Do you know him, Warren? Nice chap. Too
bad about his father's sudden death from heart failure, wasn't it? He
told me they were putting in supplies for a two months' cruise and would
not be able to sail before three in the morning.”
“I don't know Van Cleft,” was Warren's guarded reply. “Of course, I read
of his sad loss. But he is so rich now that he can wipe out his grief
with a change of scene and part of the inheritance. It's being done in
society, these days.”
“Poor Van Cleft! He's besieged by blackmailers, who threaten to lay
bare his father's extravagant innuendos, unless he pays fifty thousand
dollars. He can afford it, but as he says, it's war times and money
is scarce as brunette chorus girls. He has put the matter before the
District Attorney and is going to sail for Far Cathay until they round
up the gang. These criminals are so clumsy nowadays, I imagine it will
be an easy task, don't you, Warren?”
The other man's eyes narrowed to black slits as he studied the childlike
expression of Shirley's face. He wondered if there could be a covert
threat in this innocent confidence. He answered laconically: “Oh, I
suppose so. We read about crooks in the magazines and then see their
capers in the motion picture thrillers, but down in real life, we find
them a sordid, unimaginative lot of rogues.”
He proffered Shirley a cigarette from his jeweled case. As he leaned
toward the table to draw a match from the small bronze holder, Helene
observed Shirley deftly substitute it for one of his own, secreting the
first.
“Yes,” continued Shirley, “the criminal who is caught generally loses
his game because he is mechanical and ungifted with talent. But think of
the criminals who have yet to be captured--the brilliant, the inspired
ones, the chess-players of wickedness who love their game and play it
with the finesse of experts.”
Shirley smoothed away the ripple of suspicion which he had mischievously
aroused with, “So, that is why fellows like us would not bother with the
life. The same physical and intellectual effort expended by a criminal
genius would bring him money and power with no clutching legal hand to
fear. But there, we're getting morbid. What I really want to do is to
satisfy my vanity. Where did Miss Marigold disappear?”
“Talking about me?” and Helene opened her eyes languorously. “I was so
tired waiting for you that when Mr. Warren came along in his wonderful
new car I yielded to his invitation, so we enjoyed that tea-room trip
which you had promised. Such a lark! Then we came up here where I had
the most wonderful dinner with him and three girls. I was tired and
sleepy, so I dozed away on that library davenport until the party
began--and there you are and here I are, and so, forgive me, Monty?”
She slipped nimbly to the floor, with a maddening display of a silken
ankle, advancing to the criminologist with a wistful playfulness which
brought a flush of sudden feeling, to the face of Reginald Warren.
Helene was carrying out his directions to the letter, Shirley observed.
They lingered at Warren's festivities until a wee sma' hour, Helene
pretending to share the conviviality, while actually maintaining a
hawk-like watch upon the two conspirators as she now felt them to be.
She was amused by the frequency with which Shine Taylor and Reginald
Warren plied their guest with cigarettes: Shirley's legerdemain in
substituting them was worthy of the vaudeville stage.
“The wine and my smoking have made me drowsy,” he told her, with no
effort at concealment. “We must get home or I'll fall asleep myself.”
A covert smile flitted across Warren's pale face, as Shirley
unconventionally indulged in several semi-polite yawns, nodding a bit,
as well. Helene accepted glass after glass of wine, thoughtfully poured
out by her host. And as thoughtfully, did she pour it into the flower
vases when his back was turned: she matched the other girls' acute
transports of vinous joy without an error. Shirley walked to the
window, asking if he might open it for a little fresh air. Warren nodded
smiling.
“You are well on the way to heaven in this altitude of eight stories,”
volunteered Shirley, with a sleepy laugh.
“Yes. The eighth and top floor. A burglar could make a good haul of my
collection, except that I have the window to the fire escape barred from
the inside, around the corner facing to the north. Here, I am safe from
molestation.”
“A great view of the Park--what a fine library for real reading; and
I see you have a typewriter--the same make I used to thump, when I
did newspaper work--a Remwood. Let me see some of your literary work,
sometime--”
Warren waved a deprecating hand. “Very little--editors do not like it. I
do better with an adding machine down on Wall Street than a typewriter.
But let us join the others.” There was a noticeable reluctance
about dwelling upon the typewriter subject. Warren hurried into the
drawing-room, as Shirley followed with a perceptible stagger.
Shine Taylor scrutinized his condition, as he asked for another
cigarette. As he yielded to an apparent craving for sleep, the others
danced and chatted, while Taylor disappeared through the hall door.
After a few minutes he returned to grimace slightly at Warren. Shirley
roused himself from his stupor.
“Bonbon, let us be going. Good-night, everybody.”
He walked unsteadily to the door, amid a chorus of noisy farewells,
with Helene unsteady and hilarious behind him. Warren and Shine seemed
satisfied with their hospitable endeavors, as they bade good-night.
The elevator brought up two belated guests, the roseate Pinkie and a
colorless youth.
“Oh, are you going, Mr. Shirley? What a blooming shame. I just left the
most wonderful supper-party at the Claridge to see you.”
“Too bad: I hope for better luck next time.”
“The elevator is waiting,” and Helene's gaze was scornful. Shirley
restrained his smile at the girl's covert hatred of the redhaired
charmer. Then he asked maliciously: “Isn't she interesting? Too bad she
associates with her inferiors.”
“You put it mildly.”
“Here, boy, call a taxicab,” he ordered the attendant, as they reached
the lower level.
“Sorry, boss, but I dassent leave the elevator at this time of night.
I'm the only one in the place jest now.”
Shirley insisted, with a duty soother of silver, but the negro returned
in a few minutes, shaking his head. Shirley ordered him to telephone the
nearest hacking-stand. Then followed another delay, without result.
“Come, Miss Helene, there is method in this. Let us walk, as it seems to
have been planned we should.”
“Is it wise? Why put yourself in their net?”
For reply, he placed in her hand the walking stick which he had so
carefully guarded when they entered the apartment. It was heavier than a
policeman's nightstick. As he retook it, she observed the straightening
line of his lips.
“As the French say, 'We shall see what we shall see.' Please walk a
little behind me, so that my right arm may be free.”
It was after two, and the street was dark. Shirley had noted an
arc-light on the corner when he had entered the building--now it was
extinguished. A man lurched forward as they turned into Sixth Avenue,
his eyes covered by a dark cap.
“Say gent! Give a guy that's down an' out the price of a beef stew? I
got three pennies an' two more'll fix me.”
“No!”
“Aw, gent, have a heart!” The man was persistent, drawing closer, as
Shirley walked an with his companion, into the increasing darkness, away
from the corner. Another figure appeared from a dark doorway.
“I'm broke too, Mister. Kin yer help a poor war refugee on a night like
this?”
Shirley slipped his left hand inside his coat pocket and drew out a
handkerchief to the surprise of the men. He suddenly drew Helene back
against the wall, and stood between her and the two men.
“What do you thugs want?” snapped the criminologist, as he clenched the
cane tightly and held the handkerchief in his left hand. There was no
reply. The men realized that he knew their purpose--one dropped to a
knee position as the other sprang forward. The famous football toe shot
forward with more at stake than ever in the days when the grandstands
screeched for a field goal. At the same instant he swung the loaded cane
upon the shoulders of the upright man, missing his head.
The second man swung a blackjack.
The first, with a bleeding face staggered to his feet.
The handkerchief went up to the mouth of the active assailant, and to
Helene's astonishment, he sank back with a moan. Shirley pounced upon
his mate, and after a slight tussle, applied the handkerchief with the
same benumbing effect. Then he rolled it up and tossed it far from him.
He took a police whistle from his pocket and blew it three times. His
assailants lay quietly on the ground, so that when the officer arrived
he found an immaculately garbed gentleman dusting off his coat shoulder,
and looking at his watch.
“What is it, sir?” he cried.
“A couple of drunks attacked me, after I wouldn't give them a handout.
Then they passed away. You won't need my complaint--look at them--”
The policeman shook the men, but they seemed helpless except to groan
and hold their heads in mute agony, dull and apparently unaware of what
was going on about them.
“Well, if you don't want to press the charge of assault?”
“No. I may have it looked up by my attorney. Tonight I do not care to
take my wife to the stationhouse with me. They ought to get thirty days,
at that.”
Shirley took Helene's arm, and the officer nodded.
“I'll send for the wagon, sir. They're some pickled. Good-night.”
As they walked up to the nearest car crossing, Helene turned to him with
her surprise unabated.
“What did you do to them, Mr. Shirley?”
“Merely crushed a small vial of Amyl nitrite which I thoughtfully put
in my handkerchief this afternoon. It is a chemical whose fumes are used
for restoring people afflicted with heart failure: with men like these,
and the amount of the liquid which I gave them for perfume, the result
was the same as complete unconsciousness from drunkenness.--Science is a
glorious thing, Miss Helene.”