Shirley made some investigations in a private reading room of the
Public Library: there was much good treasure there, not salable over the
counter of a grocery store, mayhap, but unusually valuable in the high
grade work which was his specialty. In an old volume enumerating the
noble families of Austro-Hungary he found two distinguished lines,
“Laschlas” and “Rozi.”
From the library he went to a cable office where he sent a message to
the chief of police of Budapesth inquiring about the remaining members
of the families. The old volume in the library was thirty-four years
behind the times: it was the only record obtainable in America.
After a couple of hours, which he devote to some personal matters, he
received a response to his inquiry. When translated from the Hungarian
it read thus:
“Professor Montague Shirley, College Club, N.Y., U.S.A.
Families extinct except Countess Laschlas, and son Count Rozi Laschlas,
reported killed in Albanian revolution.
Csherkini, Minister of Justice.”
The criminologist was happy. Here was a weapon which he had not yet
used. Now he turned his steps towards the Tombs, for an interview with
the prisoner.
After some parley with the warden, he was admitted for a visit to
Reginald Warren. That gentleman's fury was rekindled at the sight of
the club man who had been so instrumental in his downfall. But a cunning
smile played over the features of the criminal.
“So, you have come to gloat over your work, Shirley? Well, it is a game
two can play.”
“Yes? I am always interested in sport. I came to see if there was
anything I could do for you in your confinement,” was the unruffled
reply.
“You will be busy with your own affairs,” retorted Warren. “I have been
busy writing my confession. Here is the manuscript. I will baffle all
your efforts to hush up the affairs of the 'Lobster Club.' Furthermore,
my confession,” (and he exultantly waved a mass of manuscript at his
visitor,) “will send young Van Cleft to prison for perjury on the
certificate of his father's death. Captain Cronin, that prince of
blockheads, will share the same fate. Professor MacDonald, who I know
very well signed the death certificates, will be disgraced and driven
from professional standing. You will be implicated in this plot to
thwart justice. With the German university thoroughness to which you so
sarcastically referred, I have written down the facts as carefully as
though I were preparing a thesis for a doctor's degree!”
He laughed maliciously, studying the effect of his words. He was
disappointed. Shirley's bland manner changed not a whit. Instead the
criminologist offered him a cigarette.
“You might as well smoke now--as later!” and there was a wealth of
innuendo in the emphasis. “Is that all you are going to do, to square
your accounts?”
“By no means! As my trump card, I have implicated Miss Helene Marigold
in the various exploits which have been so successful now. She is
unknown in New York--I investigated that matter. She will have a fine
task in proving an alibi, after the careful preparation I have made. In
fact, I accuse her of being the mistress of my dead con'federate--”
Shirley sprang to his feet, and the rage which was shown in his strong
features brought a leer to the face of the other.
“Strike me,” continued the tormentor. “All I have to do is to call the
guard. I have been busy thinking since they locked me up here. There is
nothing more to do to me than the electric chair--but, I am not finished
yet.”
The criminologist controlled himself with difficulty. He realized that
an altercation with the prisoner would shatter his whole case, like a
house of cards blown down by a vagrant breeze. He sat down again, the
mask of calm indifference playing over his features.
“And what then?”
“Is not that sufficient to interest you? It will be another month before
my trial, and my literary work has just begun. The newspapers are filled
with war news, which have ceased to be a nine days' wonder. I shall
provide them with material which will be the story of the age! Another
month, and then?”
The prisoner lit the cigarette which he had accepted, and stretched back
in the plain wooden chair to enjoy the misery of his victim.
“But, a month--let me see? That would enable me to do some corresponding
myself, wouldn't it?” and Shirley took out a memorandum book. “You have
degraded a splendid intellect, a gallant spirit and brought disgrace
upon yourself, for this miserable ending. You have ruthlessly murdered
others, caring naught for the misery and wretchedness of those left
behind. Has it been worth it all, Warren?”
The other's eyes twinkled, as he nodded.
“A wonderful game. And I haven't completed the score, even now.”
“You are right, Warren. There is one soul more whom you have not
affected. It is too bad that you were not killed in the Albanian
revolution,--then you would have been on record as a hero instead of the
vilest scoundrel in Christendom.”
Had the death-dealing current of the electric chair been turned upon
Warren he could not have been more startled, as he sprang up. His
pallid face seemed to turn a sickly green, as his dark eyes opened in
galvanized amazement.
“Albanian--what do you mean? I never saw Albania!”
“You will never see it again. You will never see Budapesth again,
either,” was the menacing continuation of the criminologist's methodical
speech. “But a very old lady, the Countess Laschlas, will see the
accounts of her son's wretched death, in the New York papers which will
be sent to her, in care of the American consul!”
It was merely a deductive guess: but the shot struck the center of
the bull's-eye. Warren, alias Count Laschlas, staggered back, and his
nervous fingers touched the chilling surface of the stone wall. He
dropped his eyes, and then strove to regain his nonchalance. It was a
pitiable failure.
“Just as you have dealt to the children of others, so will you deal
with your own mother, the last of a distinguished line of aristocrats.
I swear, by the memory of my own dead parents, that I will avenge the
misery you have given to the innocent. The good Book says, the sins of
the fathers shall be visited upon the children even unto the third and
the fourth generation. But life to-day has taught me that the sins of
the children are visited upon the fathers and the mothers--especially,
the sweet, loving, trusting mothers! As I value my honor, Reginald
Warren, or Count Rozi, I will see to it that your mother shall know
every detail of the whole miserable career of her son. That is my answer
to your alleged confession. If there is a hereafter, from which you may
observe that which follows your death, you will be able to see through
eternity the earthly punishment which has been visited upon the one
person whom you love and respect.”
The criminal's ashen face was buried in his hands.
Great sobs emanated from his white lips, as his shoulders heaved in a
paroxysm.
Shirley had struck the Achilles tendon--the hardest wretch in the world
had one, as he knew!
“Oh--oh--” he moaned, “the poor little mutter. She has forgiven so much,
suffered so much. You can't do it. You won't do it!” He fell to his
knees, clawing at the criminologist's garments with his trembling hands,
the tears streaming down his face.
“What about those who have seen no compassion from you?” cried Shirley
in a terrible voice. “Your vanity, your self-worship! Do they not
comfort you now? This is only the suffering of another which you
contemplate! Why all these hysterics?”
Warren, groveling on the floor of the reception-room, was a picture
of abject, horrid soul-torture. At last, through the subtlety of this
unconventional sleuth, along methods which were never dreamed of in the
ordinary police category, he had been broken on the wheel which he had
himself so cunningly constructed!
“And if that mother dies, cursing your memory with her last breath,
cursing the love of the father, of her husband, of the ancestors, all
responsible for your being in the world today, what will you think, when
you watch from the other side of that great unseen wall?”
“Oh, Shirley! I can't. See--I'll destroy this stuff. I'll keep silent
about the others. I mean it. Here: I tear it up now and give you the
pieces to burn!”
Warren, maddened by his fears, nervously tore the sheets into bits and
pressed the remnants into the criminologist's hands.
“Will you promise to keep my identity a secret?”
“I will not send word to Budapesth. You have a bad record in Paris,
and other parts of the world. But, if you play fair on the confidential
nature of this case, saving the innocent from disgrace and shame, I will
see that the story never reaches your mother. There is no need to ask
this on your honor--that does not count.”
Warren winced at this final thrust. He turned toward Shirley, eagerly.
“You don't understand me at that, Shirley. I have had a curious career.
Somewhere I inherited a strain of criminality--you know how many
ancestors a man has in ten generations. I was a member of a poor but
prominent family. The government paid for my education in the best
universities of Europe, for I was to hold a position under the Emperor,
which had been held in my family for generations. But I was ruined by
the extravagances and the excesses which I learned from the rich young
men whom I met. I studied feverishly, yet was able to waste much time
with the gilded fools, by my ability to learn more quickly. The result
was that I could not be contented with the small salary of my government
office. I had to keep up appearances with my companions. So, I drifted
into gambling, into sharp tricks--then became a mercenary soldier,
an officer, in the continuous revolutions of the southeastern part of
Europe. I sank deeper and at last, in one serious escapade, I managed to
have myself reported dead, so as to quiet the heartaches of my mother,
who believed I was killed on the battlefield. There is the miserable
story--or all I will tell. They caught me in Paris and a girl betrayed
part of my name--fortunately they did not hunt me up, so my mother
was saved that disgrace. Will you keep the secret now, on our
understanding?”
“I give you my word for that, Warren.” Shirley rose, putting the torn-up
papers into his pockets. “I am sorry for the past--but you have made the
present for yourself. Good-bye.”
Warren returned to his cell and the detective to the club house.
There he found an additional cable message. It said: “Countess Laschlas
has been dead ten months.” It was signed like the other.
Shirley tore up the message, and blinked more than seemed necessary.
“Poor little old lady, she knows it all now. I will not have to tell
her.”
* * *
That afternoon Shirley called again at the Hotel California for Helene.
“I want you to go to a sweet, old-fashioned English tea-room, where I
may tell you the rest of the story. There will be no tango music, no
cymbals, no tinkling cocktails, nor, champagne. Can you pour real tea?”
“I am an English girl. I have been five days without it.”
As they were ensconced at the quaint little table, he realized how
wondrously blended in her was that triad of feminine essential spirits:
the eternal mother instinct, the sensuous strength of the wife-love and
the wistful allurement of maiden tenderness.
“Does my great big boy wish three lumps of sugar, after his hard tasks?”
“He'll die in the flower of immaturity if he has too many sweets in one
day.”
He drew out his memorandum book, opening it to a closely-written page.
“Before the confections, I must hand in my report to the commanding
officer.”
“Advance three paces to the front, and hand over the details,” and she
added another lump of sugar, with a mischievous twinkle in the blue
eyes.
“Very well, excellency. We transcribed the addresses of Warren's
gangsters from his note-book, and they have all been arrested. The men
we captured in the earlier skirmishes are all languishing in the tombs,
as accomplices in his crime, as well as for their attempts against my
own life. You will be astonished, Helene, at the revelations of his
operations as shown by his bank-books, a translation of that diary and
some of the letters which I took when I burglarized his rooms. I have
sent a code letter to Phil, advising him to confess all, and that
man's testimony adds to the corroboration. I went down to the District
Attorney with a full statement of the facts, leaving nothing unbared.
Like me, he agreed that it were best to let the law take its course,
demanding the full penalty, and saving the honor of a dozen families
who would have been dragged into the case, had not Warren laid himself
liable by the murder of his confederate, Taylor. That young man was an
electrical genius--with his brains misguided by his equally misdirected
employer. There is no chance of a miscarriage of justice, and Warren had
accumulated so much money that many of the victims of his organization
can be reimbursed in full.”
“You have handled all this with a suspicious skill for a lazy society
man, with no experience in such matters.”
Shirley understood the subtle sarcasm of the remark, but he proceeded
unruffled, to lull her suspicious.
“I only tried to cover the points which meant happiness and peace of
mind to others. It was merely a matter of common or garden horse sense,
as we call it in America. Warren has been systematically robbing the
rich men of New York for three years, under various subterfuges. No
wonder he could afford such gorgeous collections of art, keeping aloof
from his associates in crime. His treasures, like those in many European
museums were bought with blood. It is curious how a complex case like
this smooths itself out so simply when the key is obtained. And you,
Helene, have been the genius to supply that key: my own work has been
merely corroborative!”
He looked at the delicate features of the girl, remembering with a
recurring thrill the margin by which they had escaped death in the
cellar den of the conspirators.
“Cleary and Dick Holloway told me how cleverly you led the men to the
Somerset where you followed my trail through the mole's passage. It was
a frightful risk for you to take: Cleary should have had more sense and
led the way himself.”
Helene's lips pursed themselves into a tempting pout.
“Are you not happier that it was I, at that supreme moment?”
“Indeed I am: success was all the sweeter. There is remaining only one
mystery which I must admit is still unsolved in this curious affair. And
that is you. Who are you?”
She parried with the same question.
“I know your name, sir, but you profess to be a society butterfly,
flitting from pleasure to dissipation, and back again. Tell me the
truth, now, if ever.”
“Why--gracious, Helene--of all the foolish questions!” He was adorably
boyish in his confusion. She laughed gleefully, like a happy schoolgirl.
“Then, Monty Shirley, my score is better than yours, for I have every
mystery cleared. But while I know all about you, what frightful chances
you are taking with me!”
Shirley reddened, as he burned his finger with the match which had been
raised to the end of his cigarette. He accused her of teasing, and she
glanced happily at the iridiscent solitaire upon the third finger of her
left hand.
“Dear boy, I realize that I understand about you what you cannot fathom
with me. You are not a moth, but your self-sacrifice, and bravery in
this case are professional: you worked on this case as you have on
a hundred others: you are a very original and successful expert
in criminology. And I am not more than half bad at observation and
deduction, myself; now, am I, dear?”
Shirley gracefully admitted defeat, with a question: “Who are you,
Helene? And who is dear old Jack?”
The roses blossomed in her cheeks as she answered: “Jack is a very
sweet boy, ten years older than you in gray hair and the calendar, and
infinitely younger in worldly wisdom and intellect. He is an English
army officer, who was foolish enough to imagine he loved me, foolish
enough to propose every three days for the last three years and foolish
enough to bore me until in self-defense I escaped from his clutches. As
for myself, at least I am not the young woman who can stand staying in
that gaudy theatrical hotel for another day longer. I have done so many
bold, unmaidenly things that you may believe it easy for me. It is not.
“I am truly a horrid, old-time, hoopskirt-minded prude. My first act of
domestic tyranny is to make you find a sedate, prim place for my work
and play, where I may know my own blushes when I see them in the mirror,
and will have less occasion to deserve them!”
“Your work? What is that?”
“It is very hard work--with a typewriter, but not in code. I will not
divulge my name until we tell it to the marriage license clerk. But Dick
Holloway knows me, and I came to this country, partly to see him. I
have written a few plays, which simple as they were, seemed to interest
European audiences and critics. Some of my novels have strangely enough
brought in royalties, despite the publishers! But, I became satiated
with life in England and on the Continent. I came here because I felt
that I needed life in a younger and newer country. I needed an emotional
and physical awakening.”
“You have not wasted any time in drowsiness since you reached America.”
“No--and all because I went to Holloway's office that fateful morning,
before I saw any one else in New York, to ask about a play which he is
to produce this spring. I confess that it was my first experience as an
actress. Will you forgive my deception?”
Shirley nodded, as he studied the animated face with a new interest. He
admitted to himself that Holloway's prediction had come true--he had met
his match.
“And so, my dear Helene (for such I shall always call you, whether your
really, truly name be Mehitabel, Samantha or Sophronisa) you came
here, went through all these horrors without a complaint, crushing
the independence of my confirmed bachelorhood for the sake of what we
newspaper men call copy?”
Helene nodded demurely.
“Yes, but it was such wonderful 'copy,' Monty boy.”
The criminologist scowled over his cigarette, yet he could not feel as
unhappy as he felt this defeat should make him.
“When will the 'copy' be ready for publication, my dear girl. It would
be most interesting, I fancy.”
Helene caught his hand, drawing it toward her throbbing heart. Her wet
lips were almost touching his ear, as she confided, whisperingly,
with the blue eyes averted: “Only published in editions de luxe: some
bindings will be with blue ribbons, some with pink. All of them with
flexible backs and gloriously illumined by the Master's brush. The
authors' autographs will be on every copy to prove the collaboration,
and every volume will be a poem in itself.... But there, Montague dear,
I am a novelist--not a fortune-teller!”
“How can I forecast the exact dates of publication?”
End of Project Gutenberg's The Voice on the Wire, by Eustace Hale Ball