pistol, while I backed up stair by stair, keeping off the four Chinamen
who were still intact. It seemed too good to be true that we were to
get away so easily. Perhaps, I thought, the tug-of-war would come on
the floor above: but it was the enemy's game to finish us before we
gained a higher level. Here, the sound of shots could not reach the
street; and the witnesses of the fight were so besotted with their
drug, so lost to decency, that even if they woke to see strange doings,
all would be woven with their dreams. Above, there was more to fear;
some of the clients were still alive to human feeling: they might take
our part. An alarm might reach the police. Why then, if Rameses were
the hidden enemy, did he let his best chance go by? Almost
subconsciously I asked myself these questions, and half way up the
stairs, my answer came. Men shielded with mattresses flung themselves
upon us from above. They in turn were pushed forward by others and Don
and I fell back. I tried to use the iron bar like a battering ram, but
the weight I struggled against was too great. I stumbled, with Don on
top of me; there was a sound of shouting, and suddenly the lights went
out. I struggled in darkness with unseen enemies, as in a nightmare.
* * * * *
Two storeys above, in the restaurant, Irene Allendale sat pretending to
eat, and glancing at her watch until she lost patience. It occurred to
her that she had been a fool--that the woman she waited for might have
arrived before her, might already be in the little private room, dining
with John Hasle. She sprang up and on a furious impulse flung open the
door which she had so long watched in vain. To her astonishment the
room was empty.
This seemed a miracle; for she knew that John Hasle had gone in and
hadn't come out. As she stood staring at the empty room which seemed
to have no second exit, the Chinese proprietor came to her with a
threatening air. "You do what we no 'low this place," he said
bullyingly. "That plivate loom. You no pay plivate loom. You no
light look in. You give me five dolahs you' dinnah, and you go 'way.
We no like spies. You go, if you no want I call p'lice."
Already hysterical, Irene lost her head. "How dare you talk of
police!" she cried. "_I_ will call the police! You've very likely
murdered a friend of mine here and hidden his body."
The man had threatened her in a low voice. She threatened him at the
top of her lungs. The diners at little tables jumped to their feet.
The Chinaman tried to catch her by the veil as she darted to the door,
but only pulled off her motor bonnet and loosened her hair, which
tumbled over her shoulders. In an instant the place was in an uproar.
An American in defence of a beautiful woman knocked the Chinaman down.
A policeman passing the restaurant window blew his whistle, and had
hardly dashed in before he had a couple of comrades at his heels.
Nobody knew quite what had happened, but Lady Allendale gasped the word
"Murder!" and pointed to the open door of the private room. In jumped
two of the policemen, while the third tried to restore order in the
restaurant. A glance under the table in the little dining-room showed
that no corpse lay hidden there, but the lovely lady's persistence put
the idea of a secret entrance into their heads. One of them thumped
with his fist on the picture of the Chinese hunter. The hollow sound
suggested a space behind. An experienced hand passed over the bamboo
frame found a spring, and the panel slid back. Somehow the cry of
"Murder!" started by Irene flew from mouth to mouth. More policemen
appeared, and Europeans who had been peacefully dining in the
restaurant reinforced the courageous pair who had sprung through the
opening behind the picture. So the rescue-party reached us in the nick
of time, policemen's lanterns lighting up the darkness, revealing
stealthy flitting forms that would escape at any price, and a mass of
men struggling under and above a pile of mattresses.
My first thought (after I had seen that Don was safe) rushed to
Rameses. But the tall Chinaman with the long dark eyes was not among
the prisoners. That night (the police gleefully informed me later)
Doctor Rameses was engaged in giving a lecture at his own house, and
could not possibly have been in Chinatown. As usual, he had known how
to save himself; and it was only long after that I learned the
remarkable way in which he invariably established an alibi.
My hope for the reconciliation of Don and Irene was fulfilled even
before the overwhelming proof of his truth was obtained by finding the
tobacco-pouch intact, still hidden inside the seat of the ancient taxi
whose number Don had never forgotten. The man who had driven it the
night of the attack had been discharged, and could not be found.
Hanson, too, contrived to elude the vigilance of the police, and
Pauline passionately denied all knowledge of him. She was watched when
Lady Allendale sent her away, but returned quietly to Europe, while
Irene remained in New York to help nurse Donald back to health. With
Hanson and his accomplice of the taxi missing, and the Master Mind past
pursuit, it was impossible to clear up the mystery of the corpse found
floating in the East River. But after all, that mattered only to the
police, now that Captain Sir Donald Allendale was alive and safe, and
happier than he had been for years.
The day that Irene and he made up their differences, she sent for me.
"You won't tell Don that I said I hated him and threw his picture on
the floor, will you?" she asked me piteously.
"Of course not!" I assured her.
"Ah, if I could atone!" she sighed.
"You have atoned. You saved our lives, and----"
"Oh, but you don't know all. If you did, you'd loathe me."
"I can think of nothing which would make me loath you, Lady Allendale."
"I--made Miss Odell believe--that--that--I can't tell you _what_!
But--never mind. I've written to her now. I've confessed that it was
a lie. If you wouldn't press me with questions, but just wait to hear
from her, you'd be an _angel_, Lord John."
How long I could have remained an angel at that price I'm not sure.
But a letter came to me from Maida next day to say that she had decided
_not_ to become a life member of the Grey Sisterhood.
EPISODE VI
THE CLUE IN THE AIR
If I had been fighting my own battle, not Maida's, against Doctor
Rameses, I might have sometimes admired his cleverness. There seemed
to be no way of catching him.
The police theory was that some person, not Rameses, took advantage of
the "philanthropist's" conspicuous appearance to commit crimes in a
disguise resembling his peculiarities. This, they thought, might be
done not only as a means of escaping detection, but with the object of
blackmail. My theory was different. I believed that Rameses had a
confederate enough like him in looks to deceive an audience assembled
for one of his lectures, or patients undergoing his treatment.
I did not hesitate to assert this opinion, hoping to provoke the man to
open attack.
After the affair of the opium den, he lay low. Nothing happened in
which, by any stretching of probabilities, he could have had a hand.
Perhaps, thought I, he had learned that I was a hard nut to crack!
Two-thirds of the time for which Maida had promised herself to the Grey
Sisterhood passed. Her doubts of me had been swept away, and I hoped
to find at the end of the year that I hadn't waited in vain. Now and
then I saw, or believed that I saw, light on the mystery of Maida's
antecedents. Altogether I was happier than I had been and I was
serving my country's interests while I served my own.
I had been ordered to buy desirable new types of aeroplanes, and
luckily got hold of some good ones. The "story" of my mission suddenly
appeared in the newspapers, and interest in my old exploits as a flying
man were revived embarrassingly. I was "paragraphed" for a few days
when war tidings happened to be dull; and to my surprise received an
invitation to demonstrate my "stunt" of looping a double loop at a new
aviation park, opened on Long Island. The exhibition resulted in
another compliment. I was asked to instruct a class of young aviators,
and was officially advised by the British Ambassador to accept. I did
accept: and was given a "plane" and a hangar of my own; but I kept on
my suite in the hotel near Sisterhood House, starting at an early hour
most mornings to motor to the aviation ground.
After a few weeks of this, a big aviation meeting took place, and when
my part in it was over I found myself holding quite a reception in my
hangar. Friends and strangers had kind things to say: and while I
explained new features of my 'plane to some pretty women, I saw a
prettier woman gazing wistfully at me between hats.
Her face was familiar. I remembered that tremulous, wistful smile of
eyes and lips, which (the thought flashed through my head) would be
fine stock-in-trade for an actress. Still, for the life of me, I
couldn't recall the girl's name or whether we had ever really met,
until her chance came to dash into the breach made by disappearing
plumes and feathers. She seized the opportunity with a promptness that
argued well for her bump of decision: but she was helped to success by
the tallest, thinnest, brightest-eyed young man I had ever seen.
"You've forgotten me, Lord John!" the girl reproached me. "I'm Helen
Hartland. Does that name bring back anything?"
"Of course!" I answered, remembering where and how I had met Helen
Hartland. She had made her debut on the stage several years ago in a
curtain-raiser of mine, my first and last attempt at playwriting "on my
own." Her part had been a small one, but she had played it well and
looked lovely in it. I had congratulated her. When the run ended, she
had asked for introductions to people I knew in the theatrical world,
and I had given them. She had written me a few letters, telling of
engagements she had got (nothing good unfortunately) and wanting me to
see her act. I had never been able to do so; but I had sent her
flowers once on a first night.
Not trusting to my recollection, she reminded me of these things, and
introduced the tall, thin, bright-eyed young man.
"You must have heard of Charlie Bridges, the California Birdman, as
everybody calls him!" she said. And then went on to explain, as if she
didn't want their relations misunderstood: "We met on the ship coming
over, and Mr. Bridges was _so_ kind! Our steamer chairs were together,
and he lent me a copy of _Sketch_ with a picture of him in it! Wasn't
it funny, there was a picture of _you_, too, and I mentioned knowing
you? Next, it came out that he was bringing a letter of introduction
to you from a friend of yours at home. We landed only two days ago. I
was so happy, for I've had hard luck for months, and I thought I was
falling into a ripping engagement. But it was a fraud--the _queerest_
fraud! I can't understand it a bit. I want to tell you all about it
and get your advice. Mr. Bridges brought me to the meeting here. It
_was_ nice of him. But now I've paid him back, haven't I, putting him
in touch with you?"
Charlie Bridges listened to the monologue with varying emotions, as I
could see in his face which was ingeniously expression-ful. Evidently
he had fallen in love with Helen Hartland, and was not pleased to stand
still listening to protestations of gratitude for small past favours
from me. She realised his state of feeling as well as I did, perhaps
better, being a woman: and what her motive in exciting him to jealousy
was, I couldn't be sure. Maybe she wished to bring him to the point
(though he looked eager to impale himself upon it!), maybe she simply
didn't care how he felt, and wanted him to understand this once for
all: or possibly it amused her to play us off against each other.
In any case, I put myself out to be pleasant to Bridges, who seemed a
nice fellow, and was, I knew, a smart aviator. He had been in France
at the time of my accident, and had not returned to America since then.
He had news from London and Paris to give me, and even if Helen
Hartland had not insisted, we should have struck up a friendship.
I invited them to have food with me at the brand new Aviation Park
Hotel (as it called itself), saying that we'd "feed" in the roof-garden
restaurant, of which the proprietors were proud. Bridges hesitated,
possibly disliking to accept hospitality from the hated rival: but as
Helen said "yes," rather than leave her to my tender mercies, the poor
chap followed suit.
The hotel had been run up in next to no time, to catch aviation "fans,"
and the roof-garden was a smart idea, as patrons could sit there eating
and drinking, and see the flying at the same time. It was small, but
nicely arranged, partly glassed in, partly open, with a "lift" to rush
dishes up from the kitchen (this was practically concealed with
trellis-work covered with creepers trying to grow in pots), and a low
wall or parapet with flowers planted in a shallow strip of earth. The
weather was fine, so we chose a table in the open, for our late
luncheon. My place--with Helen at my right, and Bridges opposite us
both--was close to the parapet, so close that I could peer over a row
of pink geraniums, to the newly-sodded lawn and gravelled paths below.
As it happened I did peer while we waited for our oysters,
sub-consciously attracted perhaps by the interest an elderly waiter was
taking in someone or somebody down there. I was just in time to see a
face look up, not to me but to the waiter. Instantly the head ducked,
presenting to my eyes only the top of a wide-brimmed soft hat of black
felt--an old-fashioned hat.
"By Jove!" I said to myself, and had to beg Helen's pardon for losing a
remark of hers: for that quick, snap-shot glance had shown me features
like those of the priceless Rameses.
"Now, what can _he_ be doing here--if it is he?" I wondered. It was
absurd to fancy that he might bribe a waiter to poison my food, and so
rid himself of me once for all. No: poisoning--anyhow at second
hand--wasn't in Rameses' line. Besides, his waiter wasn't my waiter,
which would complicate the plot for a neat murder. As the man walked
away (I still watching) his back was not like that of Rameses, if I had
ever seen the real Rameses. The police thought I had not. I thought I
had: but the picture in my mind was of a person erect and
distinguished: this figure was slouching and common.
I was not, however, to be caught napping. I called to the waiter who
now, instead of looking down to the lawn, was picking dead leaves off
the pink geraniums. "That was Doctor Rameses of New York, wasn't it?"
I fired at him, staring into his anemic Austrian face. It did not
change, unless to drop such little expression as it had worn. Utter
blankness must mean complete innocence or extreme subtlety. I could
hardly credit the fellow with the latter. "Doctor Ra--mps?" he echoed.
"Who--where, sir?"
"Down below: the man you were looking at," I explained, still fixing
him with a basilisk eye.
He shook his head. "I wasn't lookin' at no man, sir," he protested.
"I was lookin' at nothin' at all."
Meanwhile the slouch hat and slouching figure had disappeared into the
crowd which still ringed the aviation ground. I abandoned the inquest,
and turned my attention to Helen and Bridges.
As we lunched, I learned the history of Helen's trip to America, and
the "fraud" she had spoken of as "queer." It seemed that, a few days
after the suburban theatre she was acting in had closed, she received a
long cable message from New York. A man signing himself "William
Morgan, Manager Excelsis Motion Picture Corporation" offered her the
"lead" in a forthcoming production. He explained expensively that he
had seen her act and thought her ideal for the part. She was to have
six months' certain engagement with a salary of a hundred dollars a
week, and her dresses and travelling expenses were to be paid by the
management. She was to reply by wire, and if she accepted, five
hundred dollars would be advanced to her by cable.
The address given, "29, Vandusen Street, New York," did not sound
"swell" to an English actress who vaguely thought of Broadway and Fifth
Avenue as being the only streets "over there." Still, the promise of
an advance gave an air of bona-fides, and Helen had answered "Yes.
Start on receipt of money."
By return, the money came, and the girl took the first ship available,
telegraphing again to Mr. Morgan. She expected him to meet her at the
docks, but he "never materialised," and "if it hadn't been for Mr.
Bridges she didn't know what she would have done!" Bridges it was who
took her in a taxi to 29, Vandusen Street, which address proved to be
that of a tobacconist in a small way of business. There she was told
that a man named William Morgan had paid for the privilege of receiving
"mail," but only a couple of telegrams had come. He had called for
them, but had not been seen since. The proprietor of the shop vowed
that he knew nothing of Morgan. The man had walked in one day, bought
a box of expensive cigars, and made the arrangement mentioned. Bridges
inquired "what he was like," but the tobacconist shook his head dully.
Morgan looked like everybody else, neither old nor young, fair nor
dark, fat nor lean. If you met him once, you couldn't be sure you
would know him again.
"I've three hundred and fifty dollars left," Helen said at last, "all I
have in the world, for I was stoney-broke when the cable came. Of
course I can't live on that money long. But as I'm here, I shall stop
and try to get something to do. I'm puzzled to death, though, why
'Morgan'--whoever he is--picked _me_ out, or why it was worth his while
to send a hundred pounds and then never turn up at the ship."
"It does seem odd," I agreed. "He may have been scared off from
meeting you--or arrested. However, you'd better be careful what
acquaintances you make."
"I _want_ to be careful," the girl said. "But I _must_ find work. And
I can't do that without making some acquaintances, can I?--whether
they're dangerous or not! Unless--oh, Lord John, if you could _only_
put me in the way of an engagement, no matter how small. I've heard
your play was a great success. You must know a lot of managers over
here and--
"I don't," I answered her. "My activities lately haven't been in
theatres! I'm afraid----" I was going on, but stopped suddenly. She
had said "an engagement no matter how small." I would take her at her
word!
"You've thought of something for me!" she exclaimed, while Bridges
sulked because he numbered no theatrical potentates among his friends.
"I'm almost ashamed to suggest it," I said, "but I could get you a
'job' of a sort here. The proprietor of this hotel and his wife (good
creatures and ambitious to cut a dash in the fashionable world) want a
pretty girl--a 'real actress'--to sing and recite in the roof-garden
these fine summer evenings. I don't suppose you----"
"Oh, yes I _would_! I'd love to be here. It would be _fun_!" Helen
broke in. "I adore flying; and I should see _you_ often--and Mr.
Bridges too, perhaps. Anyhow, it would do to go on with till I got
something else, if they'd pay me a 'living wage.'"
"I'll be your agent, sing your praises and screw up your price," I
imprudently volunteered. Imprudently, because having arranged matters
between the hotel people and Miss Hartland, I found her gratitude
oppressive. She said it was gratitude; yet she seemed to think that I
had got her placed at the Aviation Park Hotel in order to enjoy her
society. This was not the case. Helen Hartland was pretty, with
charming ways for those who liked them: but I was in the state of mind
which sees superlative beauty and charm in one woman only. Because I
was separated from Maida Odell by force of circumstances while she
remained with the Grey Sisterhood, it was irritating to see other girls
flitting about free to do as they pleased. It bored me when I had to
lunch or dine at the hotel to find Helen always on hand with "something
to tell," or my "advice to ask."
Whether the girl had taken a fancy to me, or whether she was amusing
herself by exciting Bridges' jealousy, I didn't know: I knew only that
I was bothered, and that Bridges was miserable.
Helen lived in the hotel from the first, partly through kindness on the
part of her employers, partly perhaps because they thought her presence
an attraction. They gave her a decent salary--more than she had ever
earned in the small parts she'd played at home: she dressed well, and
made a "hit" with her sweet soprano voice, her really glorious
yellow-brown hair, and that wistful smile of hers. Next door to the
best and biggest bedroom in the house was a small room which connected
with the larger one, and could be used as a dressing-room. Nobody ever
engaged it for that purpose, however, and Mrs. Edson, the landlady,
suggested that Miss Hartland should occupy the little room until it was
wanted. The girl described it to me as delightful. There were double
doors between it and the large room adjoining, so that one wasn't
disturbed by voices on the other side. There was also a door opening
close to the service stairway which went up to the roof-garden. This
was convenient for Helen, before and after her songs and recitations.
She bought little knick-knacks to make her quarters pretty and, with a
patent folding-bed and a screen or two was able to ask her friends in,
as if she were the proud possessor of a private sitting-room.
I made excuses instead of calls; but one day I was lured in to see
Charlie Bridges (who by then had a hangar on the grounds) do his
wonderful "stunt," considered by the Edsons a fine advertisement for
their hotel. It was not, however, for purposes of advertisement that
the California Birdman performed the "stunt" in question, but rather
for love of Helen Hartland. In the small, smart "one seater" which he
was using, he would dive from a height, swoop past Helen's open window
and throw in a bunch of roses. It was said that his aim was invariably
true, a more difficult feat than might be supposed: anyhow the day that
I was there to witness the exhibition it was a brilliant success.
Whether by accident or design the flowers hit me on the head, and if
Charlie were really jealous he accomplished a neat revenge.
"I could see you as plain as a pikestaff sitting there," he said
afterwards. "Oh, I don't mean the 'plain' or the 'pikestaff' in a
nasty way, Lord John. I only mean I recognised you as I flew by."
"And Mrs. Edson too, who was with us, I suppose," I hurried to say: for
I didn't wish the boy to think that he had anything to fear from me. I
saw from his manner, however, when we happened to meet, that he was
worried, and to give him the chance which I didn't want for myself, I
began to avoid Helen.
This course wasn't easy to steer, I found, while duty kept me often at
the aviation grounds. She sent me notes. I had to answer them. She
asked me to lend her books. I couldn't refuse. At last she wrote a
letter, confessing that she had got into trouble about money. Her
salary "wasn't bad, considering"; but she hadn't understood American
prices. She'd been stupid enough to run into debt. Would I, as her
countryman, help her out of just _one_ scrape, and she wouldn't get
into another? Of course, Mr. Bridges would be glad to do it, but she
didn't want to take a favour from him. I was "different."
I sent her a hundred dollars, the sum she specified, but in writing her
thanks, she "chaffed" me for not making out a cheque. "I believe you
think me capable of trying to get a hold on you," she wrote. Naturally
I didn't bother to reply to that taunt, but kept out of Helen's way
more persistently than before, until one afternoon Mrs. Edson
buttonholed me. I happened to have seen Helen on her way to New York,
so I was venturing to lunch at the hotel.
"I'm worried about Miss Hartland, Lord John," she began. "A sweet
girl, but I'm afraid she's being silly! Do you know what she goes to
New York for so often?"
"I didn't know she did go often," I said.
"Well, she does. She's taking lessons in hypnotism or something and I
believe she's paying a lot of money. A circular came to her about a
course of lectures, claiming that the _will_ could be strengthened, and
any object in life accomplished. That caught poor Helen. She simply
ate up the lectures, and became a pupil of the man who gave them.
That's why her salary's gone as soon as she gets it--and sooner! Poor
child, I'm sorry. The thing she _ought_ to want, she won't take. The
thing she does want she can't have, if she spends every cent trying to
gain 'hypnotic power.'"
"What does she so violently want, if it's permitted to ask?" I inquired.
Mrs. Edson looked at me in a queer, sidewise way. "You'd only be cross
if I told you," she said. So instead of repeating the question, I
asked another. "Who is the professor of hypnotism who gives Miss
Hartland lessons?"
"I can't remember," the landlady replied. "I saw the circular, but
that was some time ago, and I've forgotten. Now, the child won't talk
about him."