THE UNDERTAKER
Greg and Hickey dined with Bessie Bickle. Greg's zest in his adventure
was gone; there was a pretty stew of suspicion and jealousy in his
breast. In his first bitterness he even told himself that the little
red-haired girl was no better than the rest of the gang. Nevertheless
he had promised to tell Bessie the story, and he did so, disguising his
changed feelings as best he could. That is to say, he told them the
main lines of the tale; certain details it seemed more discreet to keep
to himself.
The volatile Hickey's sympathies were completely won. "Count on me to
help you aginst them dagoes!" he said. Bessie, while kind, was less
expansive. One could see that she was reserving judgment on a Miss who
flew about town in taxi-cabs in the middle of the night dressed in
boy's clothes.
After dinner Greg and Hickey yielded perforce to Nature's demands and
slept for a couple of hours. Later Greg dispatched Hickey in the
flivver to pick up some business if he could; for the firm would
shortly be in need of funds. Greg himself started by trolley car for
the morgue. He told himself self-righteously that, however his friend
has deceived him, he would carry out his part to the letter. Pressed
to tell lost in what she had deceived him he could not have told; but
he was sore.
Entering the imposing little building on the East Side water-front his
heart failed him a little, thinking of ghastly sights awaiting within.
But he was spared all that. He saw only a business-like gentleman in a
conventional office.
It appeared that a body such as he described had indeed been found in
the North River that morning and had been brought to the morgue in a
police launch. The description tallied in every detail down to the
ring with the curious red stone. There could be no mistake. But to
Greg's intense chagrin it transpired that, only an hour or so before,
the body had been identified and claimed by one who pretended to be the
dead man's nephew. Having satisfied the authorities of his right to
receive it, he had had the body transferred to an undertaker's shop.
The name given had been Alfieri. The dead man was said to have jumped
overboard from a ferry-boat while demented. The claimant had been
identified to the satisfaction of the authorities, which suggested to
Greg that the gang he had to deal with possessed wide-spreading
influence in the background. The authorities had been the more easily
satisfied because there was no mark on the body to suggest foul play;
and besides the man's jewelry a considerable sum of money had been
found on his person. There was no question of a robbery.
Greg satisfied himself with obtaining the address of the undertaker,
and said nothing here about the facts of the case. He suspected that
the newspaper offices must be in close touch with the morgue, and he
had no desire to explode a public sensation until he was surer of his
ground.
The body had not been taken to one of the humble establishments in the
neighborhood, but to a fine place half way up-town; "mortuarian" read
the sign. It was the first time Greg had been in such a place. He
found the religio-commercial atmosphere, the heavy professional
commiseration rather oppressive. "Why can't undertakers be simply
business-like?" he asked himself.
In the handsome, subdued private office of the proprietor he found
himself faced by a clayey-faced individual, irreproachably and sably
clad, whose expression of preternatural woe was lightened in spite of
himself by a spark of anticipation at the sight of, as he thought, a
new customer. Greg disliked him at sight. Nobody likes an undertaker;
not their fault of course; they have painful associations for all.
"Good afternoon, sir," said the undertaker with an air that seemed to
say further: "I know the sad errand that has brought you to me, and I
feel for you from the bottom of my heart!" Just the same Greg had the
feeling that he would have rubbed his hands, had he not been told that
it was unrefined.
All this made Greg a little brusquer than he need have been. "I
understand you received a body from the morgue this afternoon said to
be that of a Señor Alfieri."
The undertaker's manner changed. "Morgue" brought out so bluntly
offended his delicate susceptibilities. He apprehended an unfriendly
atmosphere. He signified an affirmative.
"Is it here now?" asked Greg.
"May I ask what is your interest in the matter?"
"I represent the dead man's niece."
"Yes, it is here."
"May I see it?"
"Er--Not at the moment. It is being prepared. A little later
perhaps--if you will be good enough to bring the necessary
authorization."
"Authorization from whom?"
"Señor Alberto Alfieri, the dead man's nephew, who engaged the services
of my establishment."
"Would you mind describing this man to me?"
The undertaker looked astonished, but complied nevertheless. "A young
Spanish-American gentleman, short and stocky, very dark, pale skin
through which his beard showed though he was freshly shaven, a purplish
scar on his left cheek bone."
Greg recognized the description of one of the men in the Ninth Street
house. "I believe I have met the gentleman," he said dryly, "but I
cannot promise to produce credentials from him. Instead I will try to
bring the dead man's niece here to-morrow morning to identify the body."
"That will be too late, sir."
"What do you mean?"
"My instructions are to have the body cremated without delay. I ship
to the crematory this evening."
Greg struck his fist into his palm. "I might have guessed as much!" he
cried.
"I don't understand you, sir."
"You have been deceived!" said Greg earnestly. "This is really the
body of Antonio Bareda who was murdered. His murderers are trying to
destroy the evidence of their crime."
The undertaker smiled indulgently. "My dear sir! This is a
preposterous charge! You may be assured that I satisfied myself
everything was in order before I accepted the work."
"How 'in order?'" Greg demanded.
"The death certificate, the permit from the Board of Health, the
younger Mr. Alfieri's credentials----"
"They have both money and influence," put in Greg.
"The dead man's jewelry was still on his person when the body was
brought here."
"Men are murdered for other reasons than to secure their valuables.
Look here, if I bring a reputable physician here will you allow him to
perform an autopsy?"
"Not without the consent of my client."
"I hope he paid you in advance," said Greg.
The other shrugged.
"Did he give you an address?"
The other named a number far up-town.
"I'll swear it is fictitious. Will you do me the favor of
investigating the address?"
"I am not convinced of the necessity for that."
"But you will at least delay the shipment of the body until I can get
in communication with the dead man's niece?"
"I intend to carry out my instructions to the letter."
Greg perceived that the man was wholly under the influence of the
handsome fee that had been paid him. He felt that he was wasting his
time, but he tried one more appeal.
"But don't you see, sir, that in asking you to delay matters I could
have no possible motive except to discover the truth, while the motives
of those who wish to destroy the body so hastily are at least open to
suspicion?"
"You should go to the police," was the cold reply. "That is what the
police are for."
"I can't open a vulgar newspaper sensation until I am surer of my
ground."
The undertaker rose. "Sorry I can do nothing for you."
Greg tried a new line. "Look here, when you have shipped this body,
your interest in it is at an end, isn't it?"
The other shrugged expressively. "The ashes will be returned to me in
due course. The order includes a handsome urn for their reception."
"A bit of stage-play," said Greg bitterly. "It will never be called
for. If this body happened to come back here from another direction
would you accept an order to embalm it?"
"That would hardly be ethical," was the smug reply. "Of course if the
crematory cared to take the responsibility of departing from my order,
you could take it to some other embalmer."
"Can you suggest anybody?" asked Greg slyly.
"Well, there's my son," replied the clay-faced one blandly. "He is
just starting in business for himself. But it's in Brooklyn."
"That doesn't matter."
He gave an address.
"Thank you very much," said Greg dryly. "Where is the crematory?"
"Silver Pond, Long Island. About eighteen miles out on the Port
Franklin branch."
"What time are you sending the body out there?"
"It leaves here about five. I understand they are always put on the
eight-fifteen train arriving at Silver Pond about nine."
"Is the crematory near the station?"
"Some three miles distant, I believe; in a very lonely neighborhood."
Greg thanked him and they parted, having reached an excellent
understanding after all.
Greg called up the Marsden Farms Hotel from a telephone booth.
Loverlike, he anticipated a melancholy satisfaction in telling the girl
who had used him so badly, as he told himself, how he had been working
in her behalf. He was prepared to be nobly cold and self-sacrificing
and virtuous. Unfortunately for these fine feelings he was told by the
office of the hotel that no one of the name of de Socotra was stopping
there. Thinking perhaps they might have registered under an assumed
name, he described the ladies, but was assured that no such persons had
arrived during the day.
Once more jealousy, anger and rage had full sway over him. She had
purposely given him the slip, he told himself. She had only used him
the night before for her own purposes. Very questionable purposes they
seemed now. Well, he'd be hanged if he did any more for her! If he
couldn't find her again he would donate the three hundred dollars to a
worthy charity. Even while he raged against her a still small voice
whispered to him that the glance of her flamelike eyes had been clear
and true, but he would not have it so.
The more he told himself he would think no longer of her, the more the
mystery of her teased him. If she were de Socotra's daughter how could
she be an American as she had so proudly asserted? And if she were de
Socotra's daughter how could she turn against her own father even
though she had discovered he was a villain. That she was not deficient
in natural affection her grief on learning of her uncle's death had
shown; but Greg could not conceive of a daughter putting a mere uncle
above her father. And if she loved America and Americans how could she
possibly think of allying herself to anything so essentially
un-American as the exquisite, enervated Castilian youth with his little
head and his vacant, arrogant glance?
In the turmoil of his feelings Greg walked all the way down-town to the
taxi-yard. As he passed through the little store Bessie told him there
was a man waiting to see him.
"But nobody knows me at this address," said Greg astonished. "Who did
he ask for?"
"The driver of T7011."
Greg went through to the yard. The man waiting there wore the uniform
of a taxi-driver of the better class, but there was no sign of a cab.
"You want to see me?" said Greg.
The other had a naturally truculent manner. "I don't know whether I do
or not. I want the driver of T7011."
"That's me."
He scornfully looked Greg up and down. "G'wan! You ain't one of us!"
"Sure, I am. I'm off duty now."
"'Tain't good enough, Jack."
"Come into the house and the woman will identify me."
Bessie, full of curiosity, was already at the kitchen door. She
assured the man Greg was what he claimed to be, but the obstinate
fellow having made up his mind was not to be swayed.
"I don't know _you_," he said to Bessie. "I don't know any of yez.
It's a bad neighborhood."
The highly incensed Bessie gave him a good piece of her mind; this
naturally only confirmed him in his obstinacy.
"If the cab's yours where is it now?" he demanded of Greg.
"My partner has it out."
"Likely story! I'll wait until I see it before I believe it."
"Suit yourself," said Greg marching into the house in a rage.
Fortunately for his much-tried temper it was not long before Hickey
returned. Hearing the "machine-gun" come in, Greg went out into the
yard and found the two chauffeurs in talk.
"I can't make out what he's driving at," said Hickey scratching his
head.
"Let him tell me," said Greg. "First tell him that this is my cab."
Hickey did so. The other driver was not in the least abashed. Indeed
he plumed himself more than ever on his astuteness.
"I drive for the New York Western cab service," he said. "They keep a
sharp tab on us fellows and the gas we use, and I couldn't get down
here until I was off duty. This morning at the Terminal three ladies
engaged me: that is they was four in the party but one was a
servant----"
Greg's heart began to beat.
"Old Spanish-looking dame and two pippins, black-head and red-head.
Say, red-head was a little queen she was, with a little green hat and a
whole grizzly bear around her neck, I guess it was----"
"Never mind her description," said Greg impatiently. "We know her.
Get ahead!"
It only had the result of delaying the story still further. "Say,
who's telling this, you or me?" burst out the irritable one. "I ain't
telling it for your pleasure anyway, but for her that sent me. What if
I do drive a taxi-cab, when I'm off duty I'm as good a man as any."
"Sure!" said Greg. "You're all right! But for God's sake get on with
your story!"
"Well, I was ordered to take them to an apartment house on Riverside,
the Stickney Arms it was, Ninety-fourth Street, big, swell place. Half
a van load of hand-baggage they had. While it was being carried in the
young lady had a chance to speak to me private. Says she: 'Go to
Bessie Bickle's taxi-yard on Gibbon Street south of Houston----'
"When she got that far the black-haired one turned around sudden, and
we made believe to be counting the bags. The old lady happened to call
the black-haired one and little red-hair had a chance to finish: 'Tell
the driver of T7011 that you brought me to this address.'
"That's all. Slipped me a couple of dollars she did, but I would have
come for nothing. A peach!"
Greg experienced a complete revulsion of feeling. Gone were all his
hard and angry thoughts. She had sent him word; she was all right!
"Good work!" he cried. "I'll give you another two myself if you'll let
me."
The driver was not unwilling.
Poor Hickey, who had been looking forward to a "second helping" at
Bessie's table and a good sleep, was turned around and bidden to drive
to the Stickney Arms for all the flivver was worth. On the way Greg
debated how to establish communications with his little friend. What
he had seen himself, and what the chauffeur had told him, suggested
that she was under the closest surveillance, and it behooved him to be
careful in approaching her. Suddenly an idea occurred to him that made
him chuckle and slap his knee.
He had Hickey stop at a druggist's where he purchased a sheet of showy
note-paper and an envelope, and on the counter indited this note:
"The young man with the blue tie noticed by the young lady with the
silver-fox furs on the steps of the Hotel Meriden this morning desires
to make her better acquaintance. Read the personal column in the
Sphere to-morrow."
The Stickney Arms proved to be a towering structure in what might be
called the Jerry-Gothic style, the "Gothic" having been manufactured in
a terra-cotta kiln on Staten Island. It was, notwithstanding, a very
fine place of its kind, with a truly royal red carpet down the
sumptuous corridor from front door to elevators, and in attendance four
young Apollos wearing blue uniforms with gold cords across their
breasts. One was to open the door, one to answer the telephone, one to
run the elevator and one just to stand around and look ornamental.
The last boy had a peculiarly knowing look, and to him Greg addressed
himself. Before saying anything he made a suggestive movement with his
hand, to which the boy instinctively responded. A dollar bill changed
hands like lightning. The blue-clad one assumed a responsive air.
"Little girl with dark red hair," said Greg, "black suit, little green
hat, big soft fur around her neck; travels with two Spanish-looking
ladies; do you know her?"
The boy nodded. "Sub-let a furnished apartment on the eighth floor.
Moved in this morning."
"What name?" asked Greg.
"Soak-oat-er, or somepin like that."
"Slip her this," said Greg, showing his letter. "Only into her hands,
see?"
The boy pocketed the letter. "I get you, boss."
Greg returned to his cab in high satisfaction. He had every reason to
believe that the note would be delivered. Trust a New York hall-boy in
matters of this kind! But even should it fall under other eyes, it
could not but put them on a false track.
"Now for a bang-up feed," said Greg to Hickey. "We need it, for
there's a big night's work beginning."
"_Beginning!_" groaned Hickey. "I thought my work was done!"