The episode of the cab of the sleeping horse was leading on to--what?
Three men in the Collingwood knew of the occurrence, yet no one had come
in or gone out, and no one had telephoned. Moreover, they also knew of
Harleston's part in the matter. The girl had not lied, he was sure;
therefore they must have gained entrance from the outside; and,
possibly, were now hiding in the Chartrand apartment--if the telephone
message to No. 401 had to do with the occupant of the deserted cab and
the lost letter. Yet how to connect things? And why bother to connect
them?
He did not care for the vanished lady of the cab--he had the letter and
the photograph; and because of them he was to have a talk with an
interesting young woman at five o'clock that afternoon. The cipher
letter, which was the much desired quantity, was safely across the hall,
waiting to be turned over to Carpenter, the expert of the State
Department, for translation. Meanwhile, what concerned Harleston was the
photograph of Madeline Spencer and her connection with the case--and to
know if the United States was concerned in the affair.
At this point he turned over and calmly went to sleep. Tomorrow was
another day.
He was aroused by a vigorous pounding on the corridor door. It was
seven-thirty o'clock. He yawned and responded to the summons--which grew
more insistent with every pound.
It was Stuart--the envelope and the flowers in his hand.
"Scarcely heard your gentle tap," Harleston remarked. "Why don't you
knock like a man?"
"Here's your damn bouquet, also your envelope," said Stuart, "You
probably don't recall that you left them with me about two this morning.
I _do_."
"I'm mighty much obliged, old man," Harleston responded. "You did me a
great service by taking them--I'll tell you about it later."
"Hump!" grunted Stuart. "I hope you'll come around to tell me at a more
seasonable hour. So long!"
Harleston closed the door, and was half-way across the living-room when
there came another knock.
Tossing the envelope and the faded roses on a nearby table, he stepped
back and swung open the door.
Instantly, a revolver was shoved into his face, and Crenshaw sprang into
the hall and closed the door.
"I thought as much!" he exclaimed. "I'll take that envelope, my friend,
and be quick about it."
"What envelope?" Harleston inquired pleasantly, never seeming to notice
the menacing automatic.
"Come, no trifling!" Crenshaw snapped. "The envelope that the man from
the apartment across the corridor just handed you."
Harleston laughed. "You are obsessed with the notion that I have
something of yours, Mr. Crenshaw."
"_The letter!_" exclaimed Crenshaw.
"That envelope is addressed to me, sir; it's not the one you seem to
want."
"I suppose the flowers are also addressed to you," Crenshaw derided,
advancing. "Get back, sir,--I'll get the envelope myself."
"My dear man," Harleston expostulated, retreating slowly toward the door
of the living-room, "I'll let you see the envelope; I've not the
slightest objection. Put up your gun, man; I'm not dangerous."
"You're not so long as I've got the drop on you!" Crenshaw laughed
sneeringly. "Get back, man, get back; to the far side of the table--the
far side, do you hear--while I examine the envelope yonder beside the
roses. The roses are very familiar, Mr. Harleston. I've seen them
before."
Harleston, retreating hastily, backed into a chair and fell over it.
"All right, stay there, then!" said Crenshaw, and reached for the
letter.
As he did so, Harleston's slippered foot shot out and drove hard into
the other's stomach. With a grunt Crenshaw doubled up from pain. The
next instant, Harleston caught his wrist and the struggle was on.
It was not for long, however. Crenshaw was outweighed and outstrengthed;
and Harleston quickly bore him to the floor, where a sharp blow on the
fingers sent the automatic flying.
"If it were not for spoiling the devil's handiwork, my fine friend, I'd
smash your face," Harleston remarked.
"Smash it!" the other panted. "I'll promise--to smash yours--at the
first opportunity."
"Which latter smashing won't be until some years later," Harleston
retorted, as he turned Crenshaw over. Bearing on him with all his
weight, he loosed his own pajama-cord and tied the man's hands behind
him. Next he kicked off his pajama trousers, and with them bound
Crenshaw's ankles. Then he dragged him to a chair and plunked him into
it, securing him there by a strap.
"It's scarcely necessary to gag you," he remarked pleasantly. "In your
case, an outcry would be embarrassing only to yourself."
"What do you intend to do with me?" Crenshaw demanded.
"Ultimately, you mean. I have not decided. It may depend on what I
find."
"Find?"
Harleston nodded. "In your pockets."
"You dog!" Crenshaw burst out, straining at his bonds. "You miserable
whelp! What do you think to find?"
"I'm not thinking," Harleston smiled; "it isn't necessary to speculate
when one has all the stock, you know." Then his face hardened.
"One who comes into another's residence in the dead of night, revolver
in hand and violence in his intention, can expect no mercy and should
receive none. You're an ordinary burglar, Crenshaw and as such the law
will view you if I turn you over to the police. You think I found a
letter in an abandoned cab at 18th and Massachusetts Avenue early this
morning, and instead of coming like a respectable man and asking if I
have it and proving your property--do you hear, proving _your_
property--you play the burglar and highwayman. Evidently the letter
isn't yours, and you haven't any right or claim to it. I have been
injected into this matter; and having been injected I intend to
ascertain what can be found from your papers. Who you are; what your
object; who are concerned beside yourself; and anything else I can
discover. You see, you have the advantage of me; you know who I am, and,
I presume, my business; I know nothing of you, nor of your business, nor
what this all means; though I might guess some things. It's to obviate
guessing, as far as possible, that I am about to examine such evidence
as you may have with you."
Crenshaw was so choked with his anger that for a moment he merely
sputtered--then he relapsed into furious silence, his dark eyes glowing
with such hate that Harleston paused and asked a bit curiously:
"Why do you take it so hard? It's all in the game--and you've lost.
You're a poor sort of sport, Crenshaw. You'd be better at ping-pong or
croquet. This matter of--letters, and cabs, is far beyond your calibre;
it's not in your class."
"We haven't reached the end of the matter, my adroit friend," gritted
Crenshaw. "My turn will come, never fear."
"A far day, monsieur, a far day!" said Harleston lightly. "Meanwhile,
with your permission, we will have a look at the contents of your
pockets. First, your pocketbook."
He unbuttoned the other's coat, put in his hand, and drew out the book.
"Attend, please," said he, "so you can see that I replace every
article."
Crenshaw's only answer was a contemptuous shrug.
A goodly wad of yellow backs of large denominations, and some visiting
cards, no two of which bore the same name, were the contents of the
pocketbook.
"You must have had some difficulty in keeping track of yourself,"
Harleston remarked, as he made a note of the names.
Then he returned the bills and the cards to the book, and put it back in
Crenshaw's pocket.
"It's unwise to carry so much money about you," he remarked; "it induces
spending, as well as provokes attack."
"What's that to you?" replied Crenshaw angrily.
"Nothing whatever--it's merely a word of advice to one who seems to need
it. Now for the other pockets."
The coat yielded nothing additional; the waist-coat, only a few matches
and an open-faced gold watch, which Harleston inspected rather carefully
both inside and out; the trousers, a couple of handkerchiefs with the
initial C in the corner, some silver, and a small bunch of keys--and in
the fob pocket a crumpled note, with the odour of carnations clinging to
it.
Harleston glanced at Crenshaw as he opened the note--and caught a sly
look in his eyes.
"Something doing, Crenshaw?" he queried.
Another shrug was Crenshaw's answer--and the sly look grew into a sly
smile.
The note, apparently in a woman's handwriting, was in French, and
contained five words and an initial:
_À l'aube du jour.
M._
Harleston looked at it long enough to fix in his mind the penmanship and
to mark the little eccentricities of style. Then he folded it and put it
in Crenshaw's outside pocket.
"Thank you!" said he, with an amused smile.
"You forgot to look in the soles of my shoes?" Crenshaw jeered.
"Someone else will do that," Harleston replied.
"Someone else?" Crenshaw inflected.
"The police always search prisoners, I believe."
"My God, you don't intend to turn me over to the police?" Crenshaw
exclaimed.
"Why not?" And when Crenshaw did not reply: "Wherein are you different
from any other felon taken red-handed--except that you were taken twice
in the same night, indeed?"
"Think of the scandal that will ensue!" Crenshaw cried.
"It won't affect me!" Harleston laughed.
"Won't affect you?" the other retorted. "Maybe it won't--and maybe it
will!"
"We shall try it," Harleston remarked, and picked up the telephone.
Crenshaw watched him with a snarling sneer on his lips.
Harleston gave the private number of the police superintendent. He
himself answered.
"Major Ranleigh, this is Harleston. I'd like to have a man report to me
at the Collingwood at once.--No; one will be enough, thank you. Have him
come right up to my apartment. Good-bye!--Now if you'll excuse me for a
brief time, Mr. Crenshaw, I'll get into some clothes--while you think
over the question whether you will explain or go to prison."
"You will not dare!" Crenshaw laughed mockingly. "Your State Department
won't stand for it a moment when they hear of it--which they'll do at
ten o'clock, if I'm missing."
"Let me felicitate you on your forehandedness," Harleston called from
the next room. "It's admirably planned, but not effective for your
release."
"Hell!" snorted Crenshaw, and relapsed into silence.
Presently Harleston appeared, dressed for the morning.
"Why not spread your cards on the table, Crenshaw?" he asked. "I did
stumble on the deserted cab this morning, wholly by accident; I was on
my way here. I did find in it a letter and these roses, and I brought
them here. I don't know if you know what that letter contained--I do.
It's in cipher--and will be turned over to the State Department for
translation. What I want to know is: first--what is the message of the
letter, if you know; second--who was the woman in the cab, and the facts
of the episode; third--what governments, if any, are concerned."
"You're amazingly moderate in your demands," Crenshaw sarcasmed; "so
moderate, indeed, that I would acquiesce at once but for the fact that
I'm wholly ignorant of the contents of the letter. The name of the
woman, and the episode of the cab are none of your affair; nor do the
names of parties, whether personal or government, concern you in the
least."
"Very well. We'll close up the cards and play the game. The first thing
in the game, as I said a moment ago, Crenshaw, is not to squeal when you
are in a hole and losing."
A knock came at the door. Harleston crossed and swung it open.
A young man--presumably a business man, quietly-dressed--stood at
attention and saluted. If he saw the bound man in the chair, his eyes
never showed it.
"Ah, Whiteside," Harleston remarked. "I'm glad it is you who was sent.
Come in.... You will remain here and guard this man; you will prevent
any attempt at escape or rescue, even though you are obliged to use the
utmost force. I'm for down-town now; and I will communicate with you at
the earliest moment. Meanwhile, the man is in your charge."
"Yes, Mr. Harleston!" Whiteside answered.
"I want some breakfast!" snapped Crenshaw.
"The officer will order from the cafe whatever you wish," Harleston
replied; and picking up his stick he departed, the letter and the
photograph in the sealed envelope in his inside pocket.
As he went out, he smiled pleasantly at Crenshaw.
V
ANOTHER WOMAN
Harleston walked down Sixteenth Street--the Avenue of the Presidents, if
you have time either to say it or write it. The Secretary of State
resided on it, and, as chance had it, he was descending the front steps
as Harleston came along.
Now the Secretary was duly impressed with all the dignity of his
official position, and he rarely failed to pull it on the ordinary
individual--cockey would be about the proper term. In Harleston,
however, he recognized an unusual personage; one to whom the Department
was wont to turn when all others had failed in its diplomatic problems;
who had some wealth and an absolutely secure social position; who
accepted no pecuniary recompense for his service, doing it all for pure
amusement, and because his government requested it.
"It's too fine a day to ride to the Department," said the Secretary.
"It's much too fine, really, to go anywhere except to the Rataplan and
play golf."
Harleston agreed.
"I'll take you on at four o'clock," the Secretary suggested.
"If that is not a command," said Harleston, "I should like first to
consult you about a matter which arose last night, or rather early this
morning. I was bound for your office now. I can, however, give you the
main facts as we go along."
"Proceed!" said the Secretary. "I'm all attention."
"It may be of grave importance and it may be of very little--"
"What do you think it is?"
"I think it is of first importance, judging from known facts. If
Carpenter can translate the cipher message, it will--"
"The Department has full faith in your diagnosis, Harleston. You're the
surgeon; you prescribe the treatment and I'll see that it is followed.
Now drive on with the story."
"It begins with a letter, a photograph, a handkerchief, three American
Beauty roses--all in the cab of the sleeping horse--"
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the Secretary.
"--at one o'clock on Massachusetts Avenue and Eighteenth Street."
"Is the horse still asleep, Harleston?"
"The horse awoke, and straightway went to his stand in Dupont Circle!"
Harleston laughed and related the incidents of the night and early
morning, finishing his account in the Secretary's private office.
"Most amazing!" the latter reflected, eyes half-closed as though seeing
a mental picture of it all.
Then he picked up the photograph and studied it awhile.
"So this is the wonderful Madeline Spencer--who came so near to throwing
our friend, the King of Valeria, out of his Archdukeship, and later from
his throne. I remember the matter most distinctly. I was a friend of the
Dalberg family of the Eastern Shore, and of Armand Dalberg himself." He
paused, and looked again at the picture. "H-u-m! She is a very beautiful
woman, Harleston, a very beautiful woman! I think I have never seen her
equal; certainly never her superior. These dark-haired, classic
featured ones for me, Harleston; the pale blonde type does not appeal.
The peroxides come of that class." Again the photograph did duty. "I
could almost wish that she were the lost lady of the cab of the sleeping
horse--so that I might see her in the flesh. I've never seen her, you
know."
Harleston smoothed back a smile. The Secretary too was getting
sentimental over the lady, and he had never seen her; though he had
known of her rare doings; and those doings had, it appeared, had their
natural effect of enveloping her in a glamour of fascination because of
what she had done.
"You've seen her?" the Secretary asked.
"I've known her since she was Madeline Cuthbert. Since then she's had a
history. Possibly, taken altogether she's a pretty bad lot. And she is
not only beautiful; she's fascinating, simply fascinating; it's a rare
man, a very rare man, who can be with her ten minutes and not succumb to
her manifold attractions of mind and body."
"You have succumbed?" the Secretary smiled.
"I have--twenty times at least. You'll join the throng, if she has
occasion to need you, and gives you half a chance."
"I'm married!" said the Secretary.
"I'm quite aware of it!"
"I'm immune!"
"And yet you're wishing to see her in the flesh!" Harleston smiled.
"I think I can safely take the risk!" smoothing his chin complacently.
"Other men have thought the same, I believe, and been burned. However,
if the lady is in Washington I'll engage that you meet her. Also, I'll
acquaint her of your boasted immunity from her _beaux yeux_."
"The latter isn't within the scope of your duty, sir," the Secretary
smiled. "Now we'll have Carpenter."
He touched a button.
A moment later Carpenter entered; a scholarly-looking man in the
fifties; bald as an egg, with the quiet dignity of bearing which goes
with a student, who at the same time is an expert in his particular
line--and knows it. He was the Fifth Assistant Secretary, had been the
Fifth Assistant and Chief of the Cipher Division for years. His superior
was not to be found in any capital in Europe. His business with the
secret service of the Department was to pull the strings and obtain
results; and he got results, else he would not have been continued in
office. His specialty, however, was ciphers; and his chief joy was in a
case that had a cipher at the bottom. Ciphers were his recreation, as
well as his business.
The Secretary with a gesture turned him over to Harleston--and Harleston
handed him the letter.
"What do you make out of it, Mr. Carpenter?" he asked.
Carpenter took the letter and examined it for a moment, holding it to
the light, and carefully feeling its texture.
"Not a great deal cursorily," he answered. "It's a French paper--the
sort, I think, used at the Quay d'Orsay. Have you the envelope
accompanying it?"
"Here it is!" said Harleston.
"This envelope, however, is not French; it's English," Carpenter said
instantly. "See! a saltire within an orle is the private water-mark of
Sergeant & Co. I likely can tell you more after careful examination in
my workshop."
"How about the message itself?" Harleston asked.
"It is the Vigenèrie cipher, that's reasonably certain; and, as you are
aware, Mr. Harleston, the Vigenèrie is practically impossible of
solution without the key-word. It is the one cipher that needs no
code-book, nor anything else that can be lost or stolen--the code-word
can be carried in one's mind. We used it in the De la Porte affair, you
will remember. Indeed, just because of its simplicity it is used more
generally by every nation than any other cipher."
"I thought that you might be able to work it out," said Harleston. "You
can do it if any one on earth can."
"I can do some things, Mr. Harleston," smiled Carpenter deprecatingly,
"but I'm not omniscient. For instance: What language is the
key-word--French, Italian, Spanish, English? The message is written on
French paper, enclosed in an English envelope.--However, the facts you
have may clear up that phase of the matter."
"Here are the facts, as I know them," said Harleston.
Carpenter leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and listened.
* * * * *
"The message is, I should confidently say, written in English or French,
with the chances much in favour of the latter," he said, when Harleston
had concluded. "Everyone concerned is English or American; the men who
descended upon you so peculiarly and foolishly, and who showed their
inexperience in every move, were Americans, I take it, as was also the
woman who telephoned you. Moreover, she is fighting them."
"Then your idea is that the United States is not concerned in the
matter?" the Secretary asked.
"Not directly, yet it may be very much concerned in the result. We will
know more about it after Mr. Harleston has had his interview with the
lady."
"That's so!" the Secretary reflected. "We shall trust you, Harleston, to
find out something definite from her. Keep me advised if anything turns
up. It seems peculiar, and it may be only a personal matter and not an
_affaire d'état_. At all events, you've a pleasant interview before
you."
"Maybe I have--and maybe I haven't!" Harleston laughed--and he and
Carpenter went out, passing the French Ambassador in the anteroom.
Harleston went straight to Police Headquarters. The Chief was waiting
for him.
"I had Thompson, your cab driver, here," said Ranleigh, "and he tells a
somewhat unusual but apparently straight tale; moreover, he is a very
respectable negro, well known to the guards and the officers on duty
around Dupont Circle, and they regard him as entirely trustworthy. He
says that last evening about nine o'clock, when he was jogging down
Connecticut Avenue on his way home--he owns his rig--he was hailed by a
fare in evening dress, top coat, and hat, who directed him to drive west
on Massachusetts Avenue. In the neighbourhood of Twenty-second Street,
the fare signalled to stop and ordered him to come to the door. There he
asked him to hire the horse and cab until this morning, when they would
be returned to him at that point. Thompson naturally demurred; whereupon
the man offered to deposit with him in cash the value of the horse and
cab, to be refunded upon their return in the morning less fifty dollars
for their hire. This was too good to let slip and Thompson acquiesced,
fixing the value at three hundred and fifty dollars, which sum the man
skinned off a roll of yellow-backs. Then the fare buttoned his coat
around him, jumped on the box, and drove east on Massachusetts Avenue.
This morning the horse and cab were backed up to the curb at their
customary stand in Dupont Circle, where they were found by officer
Murphy shortly after daybreak; before he could report the absence of the
driver, Thompson came up and explained."
"Can Thompson describe the man?" Harleston asked.
"Merely that he was clean-shaved, medium-sized, somewhat stout, wore
evening clothes, and was, apparently, a gentleman. Thompson thinks
however, that he could readily recognize the man, so we should let him
have a look at the fellow that's under guard in your apartment."
"It isn't he," Harleston explained. "He's slender, with a mustache and
imperial. It was Marston, likely. Did any of your officers see cab No.
333 between nine P.M. and this morning?"
"The reports are clean of No. 333, but we are investigating now. It's
not likely, however. Meanwhile, if there is anything else I can do, Mr.
Harleston--"
"You can listen to the balance of the episode--beginning at half-past
one this morning, when I found the cab deserted at Eighteenth Street and
Massachusetts Avenue, with the horse lying in the roadway, asleep in the
shafts...."
"What do you wish the police to do, Mr. Harleston?" the Superintendent
asked at the end.
"Nothing, until I've seen the Lady of Peacock Alley. Then I'll likely
know something definite--whether to keep hands off or to get busy."
"Shan't we even try to locate the two men, in preparation for your
getting busy?"
"H'm!" reflected Harleston. "Do it very quietly then. You see, I don't
know whom you're likely to locate, nor whether we want to locate them."
"The men who visited your apartment are not of the profession, Mr.
Harleston."
"It's their profession that's bothering me!" Harleston laughed. "Why are
three Americans engaged in what bears every appearance of being a
diplomatic matter, and of which our State Department knows nothing?"
"There's a woman in it, I believe; likely two, possibly three!" was the
smiling reply.
"Hump!" said Harleston. "A woman is at the bottom of most things, that's
a fact; she's about the only thing for which a man will betray his
country. However, as they're three men there should be three women--"
"One woman is enough--if she is sufficiently fascinating and plays the
men off against one another. Though you've plenty of women in the case,
Mr. Harleston, if you're looking for the three:--the one whom you're to
meet this afternoon; the unknown who left the Collingwood so
mysteriously; and the one of the photograph. If the other two are as
lovely as she of the photograph they are some trio. I shouldn't care for
the latter lady to tempt me overlong."