THE CAB OF THE SLEEPING HORSE
by
JOHN REED SCOTT
Author of _The Woman in Question_, _The Man In Evening Clothes_, etc.
Frontispiece by William van Dresser
A. L. Burt Company
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with G.P. Putnam's Sons
1916
[Illustration: SHE THREW UP HER HAND, AND A NASTY LITTLE AUTOMATIC
WAS COVERING THE SECRETARY'S HEART. Drawn by William Van Dresser.
(Chapter 24)]
CONTENTS
I.--THE PHOTOGRAPH
II.--THE VOICE ON THE WIRE
III.--VISITORS
IV.--CRENSHAW
V.--ANOTHER WOMAN
VI.--THE GREY-STONE HOUSE
VII.--SURPRISES
VIII.--THE STORY
IX.--DECOYED
X.--SKIRMISHING
XI.--HALF A LIE
XII.--CARPENTER
XIII.--THE MARQUIS
XIV.--THE SLIP OF PAPER
XV.--IDENTIFIED
XVI.--ANOTHER LETTER
XVII.--IN THE TAXI
XVIII.--DOUBT
XIX.--MARSTON
XX.--PLAYING THE GAME
XXI.--THE KEY-WORD
XXII.--THE RATAPLAN
XXIII.--CAUGHT
XXIV.--THE CANDLE FLAME
I
THE PHOTOGRAPH
"A beautiful woman is never especially clever," Rochester remarked.
Harleston blew a smoke ring at the big drop-light on the table and
watched it swirl under the cardinal shade.
"The cleverest woman I know is also the most beautiful," he replied.
"Yes, I can name her offhand. She has all the finesse of her sex,
together with the reasoning mind; she is surpassingly good to look at,
and knows how to use her looks to obtain her end; as the occasion
demands, she can be as cold as steel or warm as a summer's night; she--"
"How are her morals?" Rochester interrupted.
"Morals or the want of them do not, I take it, enter into the question,"
Harleston responded. "Cleverness is quite apart from morals."
"You have not named the wonderful one," Clarke reminded him.
"And I won't now. Rochester's impertinent question forbids introducing
her to this company. Moreover," as he drew out his watch, "it is
half-after-twelve of a fine spring night, and, unless we wish to be
turned out of the Club, we would better be going homeward or elsewhere.
Who's for a walk up the avenue?"
"I am--as far as Dupont Circle," said Clarke.
"All hands?" Harleston inquired.
"It's too late for exercise," Rochester declined; "and our way lies
athwart your path."
"I don't think you make good company, anyway, with your questions and
your athwarts," Harleston retorted amiably, as Clarke and he moved off.
"Who is your clever woman?" asked Clarke.
"Curious?" Harleston smiled.
"Naturally--it's not in you to give praise undeserved."
"I'm not sure it is praise, Clarke; it depends on one's point of view.
However, the lady in question bears several names which she uses as
expediency or her notion suits her. Her maiden name was Madeline
Cuthbert. She married a Colonel Spencer of Ours; he divorced her, after
she had eloped with a rich young lieutenant of his regiment. She didn't
marry the lieutenant; she simply plucked him clean and he shot himself.
I've never understood why he didn't first shoot her."
"Doubtless it shows her cleverness?" Clarke remarked.
"Doubtless it does," replied Harleston, neatly spitting a leaf on the
pavement with his stick. "Afterward she had various adventures with
various wealthy men, and always won. Her particularly spectacular
adventure was posing, at the instigation of the Duke of Lotzen, as the
wife of the Archduke Armand of Valeria; and she stirred up a mess of
turmoil until the matter was cleared up."
"I remember something of it!" Clarke exclaimed.
"By that time she had so fascinated her employer, the Duke of Lotzen,
that he actually married her--morganatically, of course."
"Again showing her astonishing cleverness."
"Just so--and, cleverer still, she held him until his death five years
later. Which death, despite the authorized report, was not natural: the
King of Valeria killed him in a sword duel in Ferida Palace on the
principal street of Dornlitz. The lady then betook herself to Paris and
took up her present life of extreme respectability--and political
usefulness to our friends of Wilhelm-strasse. In fact, I understand that
she has more than made good professionally, as well as fascinated at
least half a dozen Cabinet Ministers besides.
"Wilhelm-strasse?" Clarke queried.
Harleston nodded. "She is in the German Secret Service."
"They trust her?" Clarke marvelled.
"That is the most remarkable thing about her," said Harleston, "so far
as I know, she has never been false to the hand that paid her."
"Which, in her position, is the cleverest thing of all!" Clarke
remarked.
They passed the English Legation, a bulging, three-storied, red brick,
dormer-roofed atrocity, standing a few feet in from the sidewalk; ugly
as original sin, externally as repellent as the sidewalk and the narrow
little drive under the _porte-cochère_ are dirty.
"It's a pity," said Clarke, "that the British Legation cannot afford a
man-servant to clean its front."
"No one is presumed to arrive or leave except in carriages or motor
cars," Harleston explained. "_They_ can push through the dirt to the
entrance."
"Why, would you believe it," Clarke added, "the deep snow of last
February lay on the walks untouched until well into the following day.
The blooming Englishmen just then began to appreciate that it had snowed
the previous night. Are they so slow on the secret-service end?"
"They have quite enough speed on that end," Harleston responded. "They
are on the job always and ever--also the Germans."
"You've bumped into them?"
"Frequently."
"Ever encounter the clever lady, with the assortment of husbands?"
"Once or twice. Moreover, having known her as a little girl, and her
family before her, I've been interested to watch her travelling--her
remarkable career. And it has been a career, Clarke; believe me, it's
been a career. For pure cleverness, and the appreciation of
opportunities with the ability to grasp them, the devil himself can't
show anything more picturesque. My hat's off to her!"
"I should like to meet her," Clarke said.
"Come to Paris, sometime when I'm there, and I'll be delighted to
present you to her."
"Doesn't she ever come to America?"
"I think not. She says the Continent, and Paris in particular, is good
enough for her."
Harleston left Clarke at Dupont Circle and turned down Massachusetts
Avenue.
The broad thoroughfare was deserted, yet at the intersection of
Eighteenth Street he came upon a most singular sight.
A cab was by the curb, its horse lying prostrate on the asphalt, its box
vacant of driver.
Harleston stopped. What had he here! Then he looked about for a
policeman. Of course, none was in sight. Policemen never are in sight on
Massachusetts Avenue.
As a general rule, Harleston was not inquisitive as to things that did
not concern him--especially at one o'clock in the morning; but the
waiting cab, the deserted box, the recumbent horse in the shafts excited
his curiosity.
The cab, probably, was from the stand in Dupont Circle; and the cabby
likely was asleep inside the cab, with a bit too much rum aboard.
Nevertheless, the matter was worth a step into Eighteenth Street and a
few seconds' time. It might yield only a drunken driver's mutterings at
being disturbed; it might yield much of profit. And the longer Harleston
looked the more he was impelled to investigate. Finally curiosity
prevailed.
The door of the cab was closed and he looked inside.
The cab was empty.
As he opened the door, the sleeping horse came suddenly to life; with a
snort it struggled to its feet, then looked around apologetically at
Harleston, as though begging to be excused for having been caught in a
most reprehensible act for a cab horse.
"That's all right, old boy," Harleston smiled. "You doubtless are in
need of all the sleep you can get. Now, if you'll be good enough to
stand still, we'll have a look at the interior of your appendix."
The light from the street lamps penetrated but faintly inside the cab,
so Harleston, being averse to lighting a match save for an instant at
the end of the search, was forced to grope in semi-darkness.
On the cushion of the seat was a light lap spread, part of the equipment
of the cab. The pockets on the doors yielded nothing. He turned up the
cushion and felt under it: nothing. On the floor, however, was a woman's
handkerchief, filmy and small, and without the least odour clinging to
it.
"Strange!" Harleston muttered. "They are always covered with perfume."
Moreover, while a very expensive handkerchief, it was without
initial--which also was most unusual.
He put the bit of lace into his coat and went on with the search:
Three American Beauty roses, somewhat crushed and broken, were in the
far corner. From certain abrasions in the stems, he concluded that they
had been torn, or loosed, from a woman's corsage.
He felt again--then he struck a match, leaning well inside the cab so
as to hide the light as much as possible.
The momentary flare disclosed a square envelope standing on edge and
close in against the seat. Extinguishing the match, he caught it up.
It was of white linen of superior quality, without superscription, and
sealed; the contents were very light--a single sheet of paper, likely.
The handkerchief, the crushed roses, the unaddressed, sealed
envelope--the horse, the empty and deserted cab, standing before a
vacant lot, at one o'clock in the morning! Surely any one of them was
enough to stir the imagination; together they were a tantalizing
mystery, calling for solution and beckoning one on.
Harleston took another look around, saw no one, and calmly pocketed the
envelope. Then, after noting the number of the cab, No. 333, he gathered
up the lines, whipped the ends about the box, and chirped to the horse
to proceed.
The horse promptly obeyed; turned west on Massachusetts Avenue, and
backed up to his accustomed stand in Dupont Circle as neatly as though
his driver were directing him.
Harleston watched the proceeding from the corner of Eighteenth Street:
after which he resumed his way to his apartment in the Collingwood.
A sleepy elevator boy tried to put him off at the fourth floor, and he
had some trouble in convincing the lad that the sixth was his floor. In
fact, Harleston's mind being occupied with the recent affair, he would
have let himself be put off at the fourth floor, if he had not happened
to notice the large gilt numbers on the glass panel of the door opposite
the elevator. The bright light shining through this panel caught his
eye, and he wondered indifferently that it should be burning at such an
hour.
Subsequently he understood the light in No. 401; but then it was too
late. Had he been delayed ten seconds, or had he gotten off at the
fourth floor, he would have--. However, I anticipate; or rather I
speculate on what would have happened under hypothetical
conditions--which is fatuous in the extreme; hypothetical conditions
never are existent facts.
Harleston, having gained his apartment, leisurely removed from his
pockets the handkerchief, the roses, and the envelope, and placed them
on the library table. With the same leisureliness, he removed his light
top-coat and his hat and hung them in the closet. Returning to the
library, he chose a cigarette, tapped it on the back of his hand, struck
a match, and carefully passed the flame across the tip. After several
puffs, taken with conscious deliberation, he sat down and took up the
handkerchief.
This was Harleston's way: to delay deliberately the gratification of his
curiosity, so as to keep it always under control. An important
letter--where haste was not an essential--was unopened for a while; his
morning newspaper he would let lie untouched beside his plate for
sufficiently long to check his natural inclination to glance hastily
over the headlines of the first page. In everything he tried by
self-imposed curbs to teach himself poise and patience and a quiet mind.
He had been at it for years. By now he had himself well in hand; though,
being exceedingly impetuous by nature, he occasionally broke over.
His course in this instance was typical--the more so, indeed, since he
had broken over and lost his poise only that afternoon. He wanted to
know what was inside that blank envelope. He was persuaded it contained
that which would either solve the mystery of the cab, or would in itself
lead on to a greater mystery. In either event, a most interesting
document lay within his reach--and he took up the handkerchief.
Discipline! The curb must be maintained.
And the handkerchief yielded nothing--not even when inspected under the
drop-light and with the aid of a microscope. Not a mark to indicate who
carried it nor whence it came.--Yet stay; in the closed room he detected
what had been lost in the open: a faint, a very faint, odour as of
azurea sachet. It was only a suggestion; vague and uncertain, and
entirely absent at times. And Harleston shook his head. The very fact
that there was nothing about it by which it might be identified
indicated the deliberate purpose to avoid identification. He put it
aside, and, taking up the roses, laid them under the light.
They were the usual American Beauties; only larger and more gorgeous
than the general run--which might be taken as an indication of the
wealth of the giver, or of the male desire to please the female; or of
both. Of course, there was the possibility that the roses were of the
woman's own buying; but women rarely waste their own money on American
Beauties--and Harleston knew it. A minute examination convinced him that
they had been crushed while being worn and then trampled on. The stems,
some of the green leaves, and the edges of one of the blooms were
scarred as by a heel; the rest of the blooms were crushed but not
scarred. Which indicated violence--first gentle, then somewhat drastic.
He put the flowers aside and picked up the envelope, looked it over
carefully, then, with a peculiarly thin and very sharp knife, he cut the
sealing of the flap so neatly that it could be resealed and no one
suspect it had been opened. As he turned back the flap, a small
unmounted photograph fell out and lay face upward on the table.
Harleston gave a low whistle of surprise.
It was Madeline Spencer.
II
THE VOICE ON THE WIRE
"Good morning, madame!" said Harleston, bowing to the photograph. "This
is quite a surprise. You're taken very recently, and you're worth
looking at for divers aesthetic reasons--none of which, however, is the
reason for your being in the envelope."
He drew out the sheet of paper and opened it. On it were typewritten,
without address nor signature, these letters:
DPNFNZQFEFBPOYVOAEELEHHEJYD
BIWFTCCFVDXNQYCECLUGSUGDZYJ
ENRYUIGYBSNRTDUHJWHGYZIPEPA
WPPOIMCHEIPRFBJXFVWWFTZNJPY
UFJDILDCEMBRVZDAYVAWALUMOFN
FCVDPGLPWFUUWVIEPTKVIPUMSFZ
NPSJJRFYASGZSDACSIGYUOFCEXA
AOIDJJFCJPSONPKUUYVCVCTIHDP
XMNOYKENHUSKHYMSFRRPCYWSLLW
SMVPPUNEIFIDJLZRWEHPQGODFUZ
TCEMQIQWNFYJTAALUMHJXILEEHY
ISOVOAZUCUDINBRLUZICUOTTUSV
LPNFFVQFANPVCYJHILTPFISGHCW
HYICPPNFDOUOCLDUWEIVIPJNQBV
ZLMIJRVKDSFRLWEGBKQYWSFFBEI
YORHMYSHTECPUTMPJXFNRNEEUME
ILJBWV.
"Cipher!" commented Harleston, looking at it with half-closed eyes....
"The Blocked-Out Square, I imagine. No earthly use in trying to dig it
out without the key-word; and the key-word--" he gave a shrug. "I'll let
Carpenter try his hand on it; it's too much for me."
He knew from experience the futility of attempting the solution of a
cipher by any but an expert; and even with an expert it was rarely
successful.
As a general rule, the key to a secret cipher is discovered only by
accident or by betrayal. There are hundreds of secret ciphers--any
person can devise one--in everyday use by the various departments of the
various governments; but, in the main, they are amplifications or
variations of some half-dozen that have become generally accepted as
susceptible of the quickest and simplest translation with the key, and
the most puzzling without the key. Of these, the Blocked-Out Square,
first used by Blaise de Vigenèrie in 1589, is probably still the most
generally employed, and, because of its very simplicity, the most
impossible of solution. Change the key-word and one has a new cipher.
Any word will do; nor does it matter how often a letter is repeated;
neither is one held to one word: it may be two or three or any
reasonable number. Simply apply it to the alphabetic Blocked-Out Square
and the message is evident; no books whatever are required. A slip of
paper and a pencil are all that are necessary; any one can write the
square; there is not any secret as to it. The secret is the key-word.
Harleston took a sheet of paper and wrote the square:
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
BCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZA
CDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZAB
DEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABC
EFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCD
FGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDE
GHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEF
HIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFG
IJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGH
JKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHI
KLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJ
LMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJK
MNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKL
NOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLM
OPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMN
PQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNO
QRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOP
RSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQ
STUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQR
TUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRS
UVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRST
VWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTU
WXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUV
XYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVW
YZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWX
ZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXY
Assume that the message to be transmitted is: "To-morrow sure," and that
the key-word is: "In the inn." Write the key-word and under it the
message:
INTHEINNINTH
TOMORROWSURE
Then trace _downward_ the I column of the top line of the square, and
_horizontally_ the T column at the side of the square until the two
lines coincide in the letter B: the first letter of the cipher message.
The N and the O yield B; the T and the M yield F; the H and the O yield
V, and so on, until the completed message is:
BBFVVZBJAHKL
The translator of the cipher message simply reverses this proceeding. He
knows the key-word, and he writes it above the cipher message:
INTHEINNINTH
BBFVVZBJAHKL
He traces the I column until B is reached; the _first_ letter in that
line, T, is the first letter of the message--and so on.
Simple! Yes, childishly simple with the key-word; and the key-word can
be carried in one's mind. Without the key-word, translation is
impossible.
Harleston put down the paper and leaned back.
Altogether it was a most interesting collection, these four articles on
the table. It was a pity that the cab and the sleeping horse were not
among the exhibits. Number one: a lady's lace handkerchief. Number two:
three American Beauty roses, somewhat the worse for wear and violent
usage. Number three: a cipher message. Number four: photograph of
Madame--or Mademoiselle--de Cuthbert, de Spencer, de Lotzen. There was a
pretty plot behind these exhibits; a pretty plot, or he missed his
guess. It might concern the United States--and it might not. It would be
his duty to find out. Meanwhile, the picture stirred memories that he
had thought long dead. Also it suggested possibilities. It was some
years since they had matched their wits against each other, and the last
time she rather won out--because all the cards were hers, as well as the
_mise en scène_. And she had left--
His thought trailed off into silence; and the silence lasted so long,
and he sat so still, that the ash fell unnoticed from his cigarette; and
presently the cigarette burned itself into the tip, and to his fingers.
He tossed it into the tray and laughed quietly.
Rare days--those days of the vanished protocol and its finding! He could
almost wish that they might be again; with a different _mise en scène_,
and a different ending--and a different client for his. He was becoming
almost sentimental--and he was too old a bird for sentiment, and quite
too old at this game; which had not any sentiment about it that was not
pretence and sham. Yet it was a good game--a mighty entertaining game;
where one measured wits with the best, and took long chances, and played
for high stakes; men's lives and a nation's honour.
He picked up the photograph and regarded it thoughtfully.
"And what are to be the stakes now, I wonder," he mused. "It's another
deal of the same old cards, but who are players? If America is one,
then, my lady, we shall see who will win this time--if you're in it; and
I take it you are, else why this picture. Yet to induce you to break
your rule and cross the Atlantic, the moving consideration must be of
the utmost weight, or else it's purely a personal matter. H-u-m! Under
all the circumstances, I should say the latter is the more likely. In
which event, I may not be concerned further than to return these--" with
a wave of his hand toward the exhibits.
For a while longer he sat in silence, eyes half closed, lips a bit
compressed; a certain sternness, that was always in his countenance,
showing plainest when in reflective thought. At last, he smiled. Then he
lit another cigarette, took up the letter and the photograph, and put
them in the small safe standing behind an ornate screen in the
corner--not, however, without another look at the calmly beautiful face.
The roses he left lie on the table; the steel safe would not preserve
them in _statu quo_; moreover, he knew, or thought he knew, all that
they could convey. He swung the door shut; then swung it open, and
looked again at the picture--and for sometime--before he put it up and
gave the knob a twirl.
"I'm sure bewitched!" he remarked, going on to his bedroom. "It's not
difficult for me to understand the Duke of Lotzen. He was simply a
man--and men, at the best, are queer beggars. No woman ever understands
us--and no more do we understand women. So we're both quits on that
score, if we're not quite on some others." Then he raised his hands
helplessly, "Oh, Lord, the petticoats, the petticoats!"
Just then the telephone rang--noisily as befits two o'clock in the
morning.
"Who the devil wants me at such an hour?" he muttered.
The clang was repeated almost instantly and continued until he unhooked
the receiver.
"Well!" he said sharply.
"Is that Mr. Harleston?" asked a woman's voice. A particularly soft and
sweet and smiling voice, it was.
"I am Mr. Harleston," he replied courteously--the voice had done it.
"Oh, how do you do, Mr. Harleston!" the voice rippled. "I suppose you
are rather astonished at being called up at such an unseemly hour--"
"Not at all--I'm quite used to it, mademoiselle," Harleston assured her.
"Now you're sarcastic," the voice replied again; "and, somehow, I don't
like sarcasm when I'm the cause of it."
"You're the cause of it but not the object of it," he assured her. "I'm
quite sure I've never met you, and just as sure that I hope to meet you
today."
"Your hope, Mr. Harleston, is also mine. But why, may I ask, do you call
me mademoiselle? I'm not French."
"It's the pleasantest way to address you until I know your name."
"You might call me madame!"
"Perish the thought! I refuse to imagine you married."
"I might be a widow."
"No."
"Or even a divorcée."
"And you might be a grandmother," he added.
"Yes."
"And doing the Maxixe at the Willard, this minute."
"Yes!" she laughed.
"But you aren't; and no more are you a widow or a divorcée."
"All of which is charming of you, Mr. Harleston but it's not exactly the
business I have in hand."
"Business at two o'clock in the morning!" he exclaimed.
He had tried to place the voice, and had failed; he was becoming
convinced that he had not heard it before.
"What else would justify me in disturbing you?" she asked.
"Yourself, mademoiselle. Let us continue the pleasant conversation and
forget business until business hours."
"When are your business hours, Mr. Harleston--and where's your office?"
"I have no office--and my business hours depend on the business in
hand."
"And the business in hand depends primarily on whether you are
interested in the subject matter of the business, _n'est-ce pas_?"
"I am profoundly interested, mademoiselle, in any matter that concerns
you--as well as in yourself. Who would not be interested in one so
impulsive--and anything so important--as to call him on the telephone at
two in the morning."
"And who on his part is so gracious--and wasn't asleep," she answered.
Harleston slowly winked at the transmitter and smiled.
He thought so. What puzzled him, however, was her idea in prolonging the
talk. Maybe there was not any idea in it, just a feminine notion; yet
something in the very alluring softness of her voice told him otherwise.
"You guessed it," he replied. "I was not asleep. Also I might guess
something in regard to your business."
"What?"
"No, no, mademoiselle! It's impertinent to guess about what does not
concern me--yet."
"Delete the word 'yet,' Mr. Harleston, and substitute the idea that it
was--pardon me--rather gratuitous in you to meddle in the first place."
"I don't understand," said Harleston.
"Oh, yes you do!" she trilled. "However, I'll be specific--it's time to
be specific, you would say; though I might respond that you've known all
along what my business is with you."
"The name of an individual is a prerequisite to the transaction of
business," he interposed.
"You do not know me, Mr. Harleston."
"Hence, your name?"
"When we meet, you'll know me by my voice."
"True, mademoiselle, for it's one in a million; but as yet we are not
met, and you desire to talk business."
"And I'm going to talk business!" she laughed. "And I shall not give
you my name--or, if you must, know me as Madame X. Are you satisfied?"
"If you are willing to be known as Madame X," he laughed back, "I
haven't a word to say. Pray begin."
"Being assured now that you have never before heard my voice, and that
you have it fixed sufficiently in your memory--all of which, Mr.
Harleston, wasn't in the least necessary, for we shall meet today--we
will proceed. Ready?"
"Ready, mademoiselle--I mean Madame X."
"What do you intend to do, sir, in regard to the incident of the
deserted cab with the sleeping horse?" she asked.
"I have not determined. It depends on developments."
"You see, Mr. Harleston, you were not in the least surprised at my
question."
"For a moment, a mere man may have had a clever woman's intuition," he
replied.
And, I suppose, the woman will be expected to aid developments."
"Isn't that her present intention?"
"Not at all! Her present intention is to avoid developments so far as
you are concerned, and to have matters take their intended course. It's
to that end that I have ventured to call you."
"What do you wish me to do, Madame X?"
"As if you did not know!" she mocked.
"I'm very dense at times," he assured her.
"Dense!" she laughed. "Shades of Talleyrand, hear the man! However, as
you desire to be told, I'll tell you. I wish you to forget that you saw
anything unusual on your way home this morning, and to return the
articles you took from the cab."
"To the cab?" Harleston inquired.
"No, to me."
"What were the articles?"
"A sealed envelope containing a message in cipher."
"Haven't you forgotten something?"
"Oh, you may keep the roses, Mr. Harleston, for your reward!" she
laughed.
She had not missed the handkerchief, or else she thought it of no
consequence.
"Assuming, for the moment, that I have the articles in question, how are
they to be gotten to you?"
"By the messenger, I shall send."
"Will you send yourself?"
"What is that to you, sir?" she trilled.
"Simply that I shall not even consider surrendering the articles,
assuming that I have them, to any one but you."
"You will surrender them to _me_?" she whispered.
"I won't surrender them to any one else."
"In other words, I have a chance to get them. No one else has a chance?"
"Precisely."
"Very well, I accept. Make the appointment, Mr. Harleston."
"Will five o'clock this afternoon be convenient?"
"Perfectly--if it can't be sooner," she replied, after a momentary
pause. "And the place?"
"Where you will," he answered. He wanted her to fix it so that he could
judge of her good faith.
And she understood.
"I'm not arranging to have you throttled!" she laughed. "Let us say the
corridor of the Chateau--that is safe enough, isn't it?"
"Don't you know, Madame X, that Peacock Alley is one of the most
dangerous places in town?"
"Not for you, Mr. Harleston," she replied. "However--"
"Oh, I'll chance it; though it's a perilous setting with one of your
adorable voice--and the other things that simply must go with it."
"And lest the other things should not go with it," she added, "I'll wear
three American Beauties on a black gown so that you may know me."
"Good! Peacock Alley at five," he replied and snapped up the receiver.
III
VISITORS
"The affair promises to be quite interesting," he confided to the
paper-knife, with which he was spearing tiny holes in the blotter of the
pad. "Peacock Alley at five--but there are a few matters that come
first."
He went straight to the safe, unlocked it, took out the photograph, the
cipher message, and the handkerchief, carried these to the table and
placed them in a large envelope, which he sealed and addressed to
himself. Then with it, and the three American Beauties, he passed
quickly into the corridor and to an adjoining apartment. There he rang
the bell vigorously and long.
He was still ringing when a dishevelled figure, in blue pajamas and a
scowl, opened the door.
"What the devil do you--" the disturbed one growled.
"S-h-h!" said Harleston, his finger on his lips. "Keep these for me
until tomorrow, Stuart."
And crowding the roses and the envelope in the astonished man's hands,
he hurried away.
The pajamaed one glared at the flowers and the envelope; then he turned
and flung them into a corner of the living-room.
"Hell!" he said in disgust. "Harleston's either crazy or in love: it's
the same thing anyway."
He slammed the door and went back to bed.
Harleston, chuckling, returned to his quarters; retrieved from the floor
a leaf and a petal and tossed them out of the window. Then, being
assured by a careful inspection of the room that there were no further
traces of the roses remaining, he went to bed.
Two minutes after his head touched the pillow, he was asleep.
Presently he awoke--listening!
Some one was on the fire-escape. The passage leading to it was just at
the end of his suite; more than that, one could climb over the railing,
and, by a little care, reach the sill of his bedroom window. This sill
was wide and offered an easy footing. If the window were up, one could
easily step inside; or, even if it were not, the catch could be slipped
in a moment.
Harleston's window, however, was up--invitingly up; also the window on
the passage; it was a warm night and any air was grateful.
He lay quite still and waited developments. They came from another
quarter: the corridor on which his apartment opened. Someone was there.
Then the knob of his door turned; he could not distinguish it in the
uncertain light, yet he knew it was turning by a peculiarly faint
screech--almost so faint as to be indistinguishable. One would not
notice it except at the dead of night.
The door hung a moment; then cautiously it swung back a little way, and
two men entered. The moon, though now low, was sufficient to light the
place faintly and to enable them to see and be seen.
For a brief interval they stood motionless. They came to life when
Harleston, reaching up, pushed the electric button.
"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he asked, blinking into their
levelled revolvers.
They were medium-sized men and wore evening clothes; one was about
forty-five and rather inclined to stoutness, the other was under forty
and rather slender. They were not masked, and their faces, which were
strange to Harleston, were the faces of men of breeding, accustomed to
affairs.
"You startled us, Mr. Harleston," the elder replied; "and you blinded us
momentarily by the rush of light."
"It was thoughtless of me," Harleston returned. He waved his hand toward
the chairs. "Won't you be seated, messieurs--and pardon my not arising;
I'm hardly in receiving costume. May I ask whom I am entertaining."
"Certainly, sir," the elder smiled. "This is Mr. Sparrow; I am Mr.
Marston. We would not have you put yourself to the inconvenience, not to
mention the hazard from drafts. You're much more comfortable in bed--and
we can transact our business with you quite as well so; moreover if you
will give us your word to lie quiet and not call or shoot, we shall not
offer you the slightest violence."
"I'll do anything," Harleston smiled, "to be relieved of looking down
those unattractive muzzles. Ah! thank you!--The chairs, gentlemen!" with
a fine gesture of welcome.
"We haven't time to sit down, thank you," said Sparrow. "Time presses
and we must away as quickly as possible. We shall, we sincerely hope,
inconvenience you but a moment, Mr. Harleston."
"Pray take all the time you need," Harleston responded. "I've nothing to
do until nine o'clock--except to sleep; and sleep is a mere incidental
to me. I would much rather chat with visitors, especially those who pay
me such a delightfully early morning call."
"Do you know what we came for?" Marston asked.
"I haven't the slightest idea. In fact, I don't seem to recall ever
having met either of you. However--you'll find cigars and cigarettes on
the table in the other room. I'll be greatly obliged, if one of you will
pass me a cigarette and a match."
Both men laughed; Sparrow produced his case and offered it to Harleston,
together with a match.
"Thank you, very much," said Harleston, as he struck the match and
carefully passed the flame across the tip. "Now, sirs, I'm at your
service. To what, or to whom, do I owe the honour of this visit?"
"We have ventured to intrude on you, Mr. Harleston," said Marston, "in
regard to a little matter that happened on Eighteenth Street near
Massachusetts Avenue shortly before one o'clock this morning."
Harleston looked his surprise.
"Yes!" he inflected. "How very interesting."
"I'm delighted that you find it so," was the answer. "It encourages me
to go deeper into that matter."
"By all means!" said Harleston, pushing the pillow aside and sitting up.
"Pray, proceed. I'm all attention."
"Then we'll go straight to the point. You found certain articles in the
cab, Mr. Harleston--we have come for those articles."
"I am quite at a loss to understand," Harleston replied. "Cab--articles!
Have they to do with your little matter of Eighteenth and Massachusetts
Avenue several hours ago?"
"They are the crux of the matter," Marston said shortly. "And you will
confer a great favour upon persons high in authority of a friendly power
if you will return the articles in question."
"My dear sir," Harleston exclaimed, "I haven't the articles, whatever
they may be; and pardon me, even if I had, I should not deliver them to
you; I've never, to the best of my recollection, seen either of you
gentlemen before this pleasant occasion."
"My dear Mr. Harleston," remarked Sparrow, "all your actions at the cab
of the sleeping horse were observed and noted, so why protest?"
"I'm not protesting; I'm simply stating two pertinent facts!" Harleston
laughed.
"We will grant the fact that you've never seen us," said Marston, "but
that you have not got the articles in question, we," with apologizing
gesture, "beg leave to doubt."
"You're at full liberty to search my apartment," Harleston answered.
"I'm not sensitive early in the morning, whatever I may be at night."
"The letter is easy to conceal," was the reply, "and the safe yonder is
an _impasse_ without your assistance."
"The safe is not locked," Harleston remarked. "I think I neglected to
turn the knob. If you will--"
"Don't disturb yourself, I pray," was the quick reply, the revolver
glinting in his hand; "we will gladly relieve you of the trouble."
"I was only about to say that if you try the door it will open for you,"
Harleston chuckled. "Go through it, sir," he remarked to the younger,
"and don't, I beg of you, disturb the papers more than necessary. The
key to the locked drawer is in the lower compartment on the right.
Proceed, my elderly friend, to search the apartment; I'll not balk you.
The thing's rather amusing--and entirely absurd. If it were not--if it
didn't strike my funny-bone--I should probably put up some sort of a
fight; as it is, you see I'm entirely acquiescent. Your tiny automatics
didn't in the least intimidate me. I could have landed you both as you
entered. I've got a gun of a much larger calibre right to my hand. See!"
and he lifted the pillow and exposed a 38. "Want to borrow it?"
"Why didn't you land us?" Marston asked, as he took the 38.
"It wouldn't have been kind!" Harleston smiled. "When visitors come at
such an hour, they deserve to be received with every attention and
courtesy--particularly when they come on a mistaken impression and a
fruitless quest."
The man looked at Harleston doubtfully. Just how much of this was bluff,
he could not decide. Harleston's whole conduct was rather unusual--the
open door, the open safe, the unemployed revolver, were not in
accordance with the game they were playing. He should have made a fight,
some sort of a fight, and not--
"The letter's not in the safe," Sparrow reported.
"I didn't think it was," said the other, "but we had to make search."
"You're very welcome to look elsewhere and anywhere," Harleston
interjected. "I'll trust you not to pry into matters other than the
letter. By the way, whose was the letter?"
"His Majesty of Abyssinia!" was the answer.
"Taken by wireless, I presume."
"Exactly!"
"Then, why so much bother, my friend?" Harleston asked. "If you do not
find it, you can get others by the same quick route."
"The King of Abyssinia never duplicates a letter."
"When," supplemented Harleston, "it has been carelessly lost in a cab."
"Just so. Therefore--"
"I repeat that I have not got the articles," said Harleston, a bit
wearily, "nor are they in my apartment. You have been misinformed. I
find I am getting drowsy--this thing is not as absorbing as I had
thought it would be. With your permission I'll drop off to sleep; you're
welcome to continue the search. Make yourselves perfectly at home,
sirs." He lay back and drew up the sheet. "Just pull the door shut when
you depart, please," he said, and closed his eyes.
"You're a queer chap," remarked Sparrow, pausing in his search and
surveying Harleston with a puzzled smile. "One would suppose you're used
to receiving interruptions at such hours for such purposes."
"I try never to be surprised at anything however _outré_," Harleston
explained. "Good-night."
The two men looked at the recumbent figure and then at each other and
laughed.
"He acts the part," said the elder. "Have you found anything?"
"Nothing! It's not in the safe nor the writing-table--nor anywhere else
that is reasonable. I've been through everything and there's nothing
doing."
"You're not going?" Harleston remarked.
"You're asleep, Mr. Harleston!" Marston reminded. "The letter is here:
we've simply got to find it."
"A letter is easy to conceal," the younger replied. "There's nothing but
to overturn everything in the place--and so on; and that will require a
day."
"So that you replace things, I've not the slightest objection,"
Harleston interjected. "Bang away, sirs, bang away! Anything to relieve
me from suspicion."
"It prevents him from sleeping!" Sparrow laughed.
"Also yourselves," Harleston supplemented. "However, you for it,
remembering that cock-crow comes earlier now than in December, and the
people too are up betimes. You risk interruption, I fear, from my
solicitous friends."
And even as he spoke the corridor door opened and a man stepped in.
From where he lay, Harleston could see him; the others could not.
"'Pon my soul, I'm popular this morning!" Harleston remarked, sitting
up.
Instantly the new-comer covered him with his revolver.
"What did you say?" Sparrow inquired from the sitting-room, just as the
stranger appeared around the corner.
Like a flash, the latter's revolver shifted to him.
"Easy there!" said he.
Sparrow sprang up--then he laughed.
"Easy yourself!" said he. "Marston, let this gentleman see your hand."
Marston came slowly forward until he stood a little behind but
sufficiently in view to enable the stranger to see that he himself was
covered by an automatic.
"For heaven's sake, Crenshaw," said Sparrow, "don't let us get to
shooting here! If you wing me, Marston will wing you, and we'll only
stir up a mess for ourselves."
"Then hand over the letter," said Crenshaw
"Do you fancy we would be hunting it if we had it?"
"I don't fancy--produce the goods!"
"We haven't the goods," Marston shrugged. "We can't find it."
Sparrow shook his head curtly.
"It's the truth," Harleston interjected. "They haven't found the goods
for the very good reason that the goods are not here. Plunge in and aid
in the search; I wish you would; it will relieve me of your triple
intrusion in one third less time. I'm becoming very tired of it all; it
has lost its novelty. I prefer to sleep."
"I want the letter!" Crenshaw exclaimed.
"I assumed as much from the vigour of your quest," Harleston shrugged.
"The difficulty is that I haven't the letter. Neither is it in my
apartment. But you'll facilitate the search if you'll depress your
respective cannon from the angle of each other's anatomy and get to
work. As I remarked before, I'm anxious to compose myself for sleep. You
can hold your little dispute later on the sidewalk, or in jail, or
wherever is most convenient."
"Mr. Harleston," said Marston, "do you give us your word that the letter
is not in your apartment?"
"You already have it," Harleston replied wearily.
"Then, sir, we'll take your word and withdraw."
"Thank you," said Harleston.
"He has it somewhere!" Crenshaw declared, fingering his revolver.
"My dear fellow," Marston returned, "we are willing to accept Mr.
Harleston's averment."
"He knows where it is--he took it--let him tell where it is hidden."
"What good will that subserve? We can't get it tonight, and tomorrow
will be too late."
"And all because of you two meddlers."
"Three meddlers, Crenshaw!" Marston laughed. "You must not forget your
sweet self. We've bungled the affair, I admit. We can't improve it now
by murdering each other--"
"We can make it very uncomfortable for the fourth meddler," Crenshaw
threatened, eyeing the figure on the bed.
"Haven't you made me uncomfortable enough by this untimely intrusion?"
Harleston muttered sleepily.
"What is your idea in not offering any opposition?" Crenshaw demanded.
"Is it a plant?"
"It was courtesy at first, and the novelty of the experience; but it's
ceased to be novel, and courtesy is a bit supererogatory. By the way,
which of you came up the fire-escape?"
The three shook their heads.
"I'm not a burglar," Crenshaw snapped.
"The burden is on you to prove it, my friend!" Harleston smiled.
"However, it's no matter. Just drop cards before you leave so that I can
return your call. Once more, good-night!"
"I'm off," said Marston. "Come along, Crenshaw, you can't do anything
more here, and we'll all forget and forgive and start fresh in the
morning."
"Start?" cried Crenshaw? "what for--home? I tell you the letter is
here--he took it, didn't he? He was at the cab."
"Will you also give your word that you didn't take a letter from the
cab?" Crenshaw demanded, turning upon Harleston.
"I'll give you nothing since you've asked me in that manner," Harleston
replied sharply; "unless you want this." His hand came from under the
sheet, and Crenshaw was looking into a levelled 38. Harleston had a pair
of them.
"Beat it, my man!" Harleston snapped. "None of you are of much success
as burglars; you're not familiar with the trade. You're novices, rank
novices. Also myself. I'll give you until I count five, Crenshaw, to
make your adieux. One ... two ... No need for you two to hurry away--the
time limit applies only to Mr. Crenshaw."
"It's quite time we were going, Mr. Harleston," Marston answered.
"Good-night, sir--and pleasant dreams. Come on, Crenshaw."
"Three ... four ..."
Crenshaw made a gesture of final threat.
"Meddler!" he exclaimed. Then he followed the other two.
IV
CRENSHAW
Harleston lay for a few minutes, brows drawn in thought; then he arose,
crossed to the telephone, and took down the receiver.
"Good-morning, Miss Williams," he said. "Has it been a long night?"
"Pretty long, Mr. Harleston," the girl answered. "There hasn't been a
thing doing for two hours."
"Haven't three gentlemen just left the building?"
"No one has passed in or out since you came in, Mr. Harleston."
"Then I must be mistaken."
"You certainly are. It's so lonely down here, Mr. Harleston, you can
pick up chunks of it and carry off."
"Been asleep?"
"I don't think!" she laughed. "I'm not minded to lose my job. Suppose
some peevish woman wanted a doctor and she couldn't raise me; do you
think I'd last longer than the morning and the manager's arrival? Nay!
Nay!"
"It's an unsympathetic world, isn't it, Miss Williams?"
"Only when you're down--otherwise it's not half bad. Say, maybe here's
one of your men now; he's walking down. Shall I stop him?"
"No, no, let him go. When he's gone, tell me if he's slender, or stout,
or has a moustache and imperial."
"Sure, I will."
Through the telephone Harleston could hear someone descend the stairs,
cross the lobby, and the revolving doors swing around.
The next moment, the operator's voice came with a bit of laugh.
"Are you there, Mr. Harleston?"
"I'm here."
"Well, your man was a woman--and she was accidentally deliberately
careful that I shouldn't see her face."
"H-u-m!" said Harleston. "Young or old?"
"She's got ripples enough on her gown to be sixty, and figure enough to
be twenty."
"Slender?"
"Yes; a perfect peach!"
"How's her walk?"
"As if the ground was all hers."
"I see!" Harleston replied. "What would you, as a woman, make her
age--being indifferent and strictly truthful?"
"Not over twenty-eight--probably less!" she laughed. "And I've a notion
she's some to look at, Mr. Harleston."
"You mean she's a beauty?"
"Sure."
"Call me if she comes back; also if any of the men go out. They are
strangers to the Collingwood so you will know them."
"Very good, Mr. Harleston."
He hung up the receiver and went back to bed.
If no one had come in and no one had left the Collingwood since his
return, the men must have been in the building--unless they had come by
another way than the main entrance; which was the only entrance open
after midnight. If the former was the case, then someone on the outside
must have communicated to them as to him.
With a muttered curse on his stupidity, he returned to the telephone.
"Miss Williams," said he, "there has been a queer occurrence in the
building since two A.M., and I should like to know confidentially
whether any one has communicated with an apartment since one thirty."
The girl knew that Harleston was on intimate terms with the State
Department, and with the police, and she answered at once.
"Save only yours, not a single in or out call has been registered since
twelve fifty-two when apartment No. 401 was connected for a short
while."
"Who has No. 401?"
"A Mr. and Mrs. Chartrand. It's one of the transient apartments; and
they have occupied it only a few days."
"You didn't by any chance overhear--"
"The conversation?" she laughed. "Sure, I heard it; anything to put in
the time during the night. It was very brief, however; something about
him being here, and to meet him at ten in the morning."
"Who were talking?"
"Mrs. Chartrand and a man--at least I took it to be Mrs. Chartrand; it
was a woman's voice."
"Did they mention where they were to meet, or the name of the man?"
"No. The very vagueness of the talk made its impression on me at that
time of night. In the daytime, I would not have even listened."
"I understand," said Harleston. "Call me up, will you, if there are any
developments as to the men I've described--or the conversation.
Meanwhile, Miss Williams, not a word."
"Not a word, Mr. Harleston--and thank you."
"What for?"
"For treating me as a human being. Most persons treat me like an
automaton or a bit of dirt. You're different; most of the men are not so
bad; it's the women, Mr. Harleston, the women! Good-night, sir. I'll
call you if anything turns up."
"All of which shows," reflected Harleston, as he returned to bed, "that
the telephone people are right in asking you to smile when you say
'hello.'"