JACOB AND DELILAH.
"Put your wrists together!"
The voice was totally different from Dobbs' whine; a strong, deep
register, like a ledge of the basal rock peeping out from a smiling
meadow. For the first time Robert felt the veiled strength which resided
in the detective's character. There was no option but to obey.
"Pull up the curtains, Johnnie."
The servant had been attracted by the crash of the lamp. A faint stream
of daylight entered the chamber, and the noises of the city could be
heard in the distance. McCausland's face seemed to have altered in every
line.
"Get a hack! Jump into those shoes!" He tossed a curt order right and
left, one for Johnnie, the other for Robert.
"To the county jail," was his direction to the hack driver. Robert
wondered at this, but he sat back smiling and said nothing during all
the ride.
"Here's your prisoner," said McCausland when they arrived. It was not
yet 6 o'clock, but the sheriff was up and showed no great surprise.
Robert wondered at this again and his amazement was not abated when they
assigned him to his original cell in murderers' row. However, the change
was to his liking, for the surroundings were less presageful of
permanency.
"You missed your vocation as a character actor," was his parting shot at
McCausland.
It is easy to imagine the dismay in the prison that morning when the
escape was discovered. Col. Mainwaring was a very different man from
Warden Tapp, and for a time it looked as though McCausland might lose
his badge. But when he showed an order from the sheriff empowering him
to bring the body of Robert Floyd from the state prison back to the
county jail, which had now been put in repair, Col. Mainwaring saw a
light; and when McCausland pointed out that he had laid his finger
precisely on certain weaknesses of the bastile, frequently suggested
without avail to Tapp, the new warden thanked him pleasantly.
The story at first was given to the public that Inspector McCausland had
captured the fugitive, Robert Floyd, and for a time not only did the
detective's cap wear a bright new feather but all the credit of Robert's
conduct during the riot was canceled by this outbreak, which was
construed as a confession of guilt. But of course the truth leaked out,
and the failure of his "nest-egg game," with its brilliant but desperate
climax, was made the occasion of much chaffing to the contriver.
"Has Bill Dobbs been taken yet?" a brother-in-buttons would ask him; and
the two lovers had many a good laugh over the game which they had played
and won. For the first time since the great shadow fell across them they
were as happy and hopeful as lovers should be, and for several days
little smiles of reminiscence would creep into the corners of Emily's
lips while she was touching out the blemishes in some negative destined
to pass from young Amaryllis to her Strephon or old Darby to his Joan.
Meanwhile Shagarach, too, was interesting himself in the study of
photographs.
"Have they all been returned?" he asked Aronson one morning.
"All but Meester Davidson's."
"And none of the neighbors saw Arnold coming out?"
"They all shake their heads and say no, they don't know that face."
"Very well. Jacob may put them in his desk. We shall hardly need them
again. Go over to the second session and answer for me in the Morrow
case. I am expecting Mr. McCausland."
"Speak of angels," said the inspector, entering cordially. "You know the
rest of the saying."
"Good-morning. Be seated."
It did not escape even modest Saul Aronson what a contrast the
antagonists made, sitting with the table between them. McCausland had,
apparently, not glanced around with more than casual interest, yet, if
blindfolded then and there and put to the test, he could have surprised
those who did not know him with the minute and copious inventory of the
office, not excluding its occupants, which this glance had furnished
him. It was this, with his almost infallible memory, which made him so
formidable an opponent at whist. Shagarach was hardly his equal in mere
perception, perhaps not his superior in analysis, when the subject was
within McCausland's range. His advantage lay, if anywhere, as he had
said himself, in his deeper insight into the human soul, in his
psychological reach.
"Sorry I was out when you called the other day," said McCausland. "I've
been looking up your matter."
"With what result?"
"These clippings may interest you."
Shagarach glanced rapidly over the newspaper scraps.
"The Broadbane murder--I remember that well."
"It occurred about a week before your first attack. You remember
Broadbane lured the young woman to a lonely bridge in his carriage and
threw her into the river."
"The circumstances were similar to my adventure. The second item is
strange to me."
"It's from a New York paper, dated July 28--the very day before your
second attack. The circumstances are closely similar this time again. A
jealous husband shot his wife through the window of her room."
"Our monster reads, then."
"He is a lunatic (puff)," said McCausland, who had lighted his
invariable cigar.
"You believe so?"
"The evidence convinces me. They have an itch to imitate, as you are
aware. This man is a victim of homicidal mania, of which you have
unfortunately become the object (puff)."
"Why Shagarach and not another?"
"Newspaper notoriety. You should see my crop of cranks. This particular
crack-brain has aimed his illusion at you. We must strait-jacket him
before it goes further."
"You expect, then, to have him soon?"
"Sooner or later (puff). Let us know if you hear anything. I see you
were hurrying off as I came in. Good-day."
McCausland had been deputed to investigate the attacks on Shagarach,
because they connected themselves so manifestly, through the threatening
letters, with the Floyd case, which he was handling. Neither he nor
Shagarach had objected to this opportunity to meet and possibly force
each other's hands a little.
"I shall be in the Criminal Court, second session, Jacob. Remain here
till Mr. Aronson comes." Shagarach was gone and Jacob left alone to his
meditations.
To judge from his expression, they were never very pleasant. Perhaps,
like Job of old, he daringly questioned the power behind human destiny,
why he showers cleverness and attraction on one boy of 14, while another
is afflicted with a manner of nose preposterous, conspicuous and
undistinguishable, to carry which is a burden. That godlike young man in
the photograph, how he would like to be as handsome as he! Was there no
way to attain it? He took the bundle of photographs out of his drawer
and laid them on his desk to study and admire.
While thus engaged the jingle of harness outside attracted him. He knew
by the sound that the carriage had stopped before his door. It wasn't
often that equipages, sprinkling sleigh-bell music in their course,
paused at the door of the dingy old business building. So Jacob became
interested enough to approach the window of the inner office languidly
and peep down into the street.
There stood a covered black carriage, as polished as a mirror, with a
buff-liveried coachman holding the reins. His seat was perched so high
that his legs made one straight, unbending line to the footrest, and his
back was as vertical as a carpenter's plummet. Mrs. Arnold was not
careless of these niceties. It would have shocked her sense of the
fitness of things almost as much to publish the fact that her coachman
had knees, as if her own lorgnette should stray from the proscenium box
higher than the first balcony--an impropriety which had happened only
once to her knowledge, and that by inadvertence, on an opera night.
"This is Mr. Shagarach's office, I believe," said the grand lady to
Jacob.
"Yes'm," he mumbled, abashed.
"He is out, I perceive. Does he return soon?"
"No'm."
"About when could I see him if I should wait?"
"He is trying a case'm, over in the second court'm, criminal session,"
answered Jacob, mixing things badly in his confusion.
"Couldn't you send for him?"
"Mr. Aronson will be here soon. Perhaps he would know."
"I will wait a few minutes," said the lady, sitting down with hauteur in
the cushioned chair which Jacob pushed toward her. After a spell of
silence she addressed him again in a gentler tone:
"What is your name, little boy?" she asked.
"Jacob," he answered. Servants and office boys grow to think of
themselves as having only one name.
"Jacob. That is a very old and dignified name. Are you Mr. Shagarach's
clerk?"
"No'm."
"His errand boy, then?"
"Yes'm."
"It's too bad you had to leave school so young. I suppose you give all
you earn to your mother?"
"Yes'm."
"Haven't you any father?"
"No'm."
Jacob thought he had never met such a kind lady. How sympathetic she
seemed and was it not gracious of her to inquire about his father and
mother? How much more agreeable it was to deal with real ladies and
real gentlemen who never, never would call vulgar names. He would have
given almost half his week's spending money to oblige this sweet-tongued
lady then, and his only regret was that he could think of no better
answer to her questions than "Yes'm" and "No'm."
"If you are an errand boy perhaps you could do a little errand for me,"
said the lady sweetly after a pause.
"Yes'm," answered Jacob, putting a world of eagerness into the word.
"You are sure you can do errands and not make a mistake?"
"No'm--yes'm," he replied, a little puzzled as to which of the two words
which seemed to constitute his whole vocabulary fitted into his meaning
here.
"Then, perhaps, I will let you take this for me."
She drew out the tiniest, daintiest purse Jacob's eyes had ever beheld,
and, opening its clasp, gingerly fingered forth a bill.
"I want very much to have this changed. Mr. Shagarach will not be back
immediately, you say?"
"No'm."
"Then perhaps you can spare a moment to run down to the corner and get
some silver for this."
"They'll change it upstairs," said Jacob, at last finding his voice.
"Upstairs? Very well, you may take it upstairs and bring me back small
silver, Jacob."
With a skip of elation Jacob mounted the stairs. There was a little
delay in the mission, to which he had repaired. When he came downstairs,
the silver clutched in his hand, his heart rose to his mouth at
discovering that the office was empty. To think that he had kept the
kind lady waiting so long! Probably she had become disgusted with him.
He stood a moment in perplexity. Then glancing at his own desk, he
opened his mouth in horror.
"My pictures!" cried Jacob. The photographs were gone.
If there was one being that Jacob reverenced and feared it was his
master. To feel now that he had betrayed him at the prompting of a grand
lady, who deceived him with honeyed words and was undoubtedly one of his
master's enemies--how could he ever face Shagarach again?
"My pictures!" he cried a second time, running into the entry. But here
at the head of the stairs a dubitation seized him. Shrill and re-echoing
through the narrow passage came the flute-like warble which Jacob knew
only too well. It was the precursor of torment for him. True, the
Whistler himself had almost ceased to pick on the office boy and even
taken him under his wing of late, but Turkey Fenton and Toot Watts were
as implacable as inquisitors turning a heretic on a lukewarm gridiron.
Turkey's tyranny was of the grosser order, as became an urchin who in
Jacob's presence had swallowed a whole banana, skin and all. Toot's
nature was subtle and spiderlike. He possessed the enviable distinction
of being able to wag his ears, and his devices of torture were
correspondingly refined and ingenious. During the last visit of the boys
he had played a small mirror into Jacob's eyes all the while behind
Shagarach's back, and it wasn't until they were going out that Jacob
discovered why he had been dazzled almost to blindness.
If he took the stair route down he would be stopped and teased and the
wicked lady would get away. Perhaps she was already gone--gone with the
photographs which should have been securely locked in his drawer. Why
had he ever taken them out?
The emergency was desperate and Jacob met it heroically. Rushing to
Shagarach's window, he saw the grand lady just crossing the sidewalk and
waving her parasol to the coachman. In a moment she would be ensconced
on the cushions within and the disaster would be beyond remedy. The
window was open, and there was a little piazza outside. Jacob stepped
out and shouted. The lady looked up and hastened her pace. Leading down
to the first story from the piazza was a flight of steps, and from the
first story down to within twelve feet of the ground, another--an
old-fashioned fire-escape.
Down these steps Jacob scrambled, scratching his hands and nearly losing
his balance, to the first piazza and thence to the lowermost round,
where the awful fall of twelve feet checked him. But the sight of the
coachman mounting his box nerved his courage and he released his hands.
For a moment he felt dizzy. But the horses were already started. With a
flying leap he caught the tailboard in his hand, and after being dragged
along with great giraffe-like bounds for nearly a block managed to draw
himself up to something like a sitting position.
There, through an eye-shaped dead-light in the back of the carriage he
obtained a dim view of its occupant. His master's stolen pictures were
in her hand. What was she kissing them for--and crying? But Jacob was
determined to have no pity upon her. He had just resolved to call out
and demand her attention, when the crack of a lash made him turn and his
lip began to tingle. The coachman had discovered his unlawful presence
on the tailboard and had reached him with just the tip end of his whip.
Probably he had meant only to frighten the lad. If so, he had thoroughly
succeeded. Again the whip curled backward over the coachman's shoulder
and snapped like a pistol shot close to Jacob's ear. To add to his
discomfort a great St. Bernard, which had been running under the
carriage, had become aware of his intrusion, and began rearing at him in
a manner more alarming than dangerous, to be sure, but sufficient to
make a peaceable lad tremble. Between the whip and the dog's teeth his
ride had begun to be worse torture than the gantlet of the stairway,
flanked by the three gamins, would have been, when the ordeal was
brought to a sudden end by the stopping of the carriage at a great brick
railroad station.
Jacob's time had come. Disregarding the St. Bernard, he jumped down and
stood on the sidewalk. The dog growled and the coachman spoke to him
roughly as he opened the door with practiced alacrity for his mistress.
But Jacob was now within his legal rights.
"I want my pictures," he said, catching the grand lady by the arm. Mrs.
Arnold looked down at him with amazement not unmingled with fear. It was
the same stupid little boy she had bribed to go upstairs in the office
where Harry's photographs had been lying--for no good purpose, her
instincts told her.
"What does this little ragamuffin say?" she asked.
"I want my photographs," said Jacob, doggedly, as the coachman shoved
him aside. He ran after Mrs. Arnold, the tears in his eyes, and clung to
her dress. A scene was imminent. The policeman approached, doubtless to
render assistance to the lady in distress. But Mrs. Arnold did not
desire his assistance just then. With a quick motion she removed a
parcel from her pocket and placed it in Jacob's hands.
"Take back your things, then, and don't bother me," she said, with a
flushed face.
Jacob gloated on his recovered treasures. Then his hands likewise sought
his trousers pocket, and he jingled a handful of silver into Mrs.
Arnold's hand.
"Take the money, Joseph," she said to the coachman. "These small
storekeepers are so ill-mannered."
The policeman gave Jacob a hard look as he passed him, but the office
boy was obliviously counting his pictures.
When he returned to the office the gamins were gone and Aronson was
there alone. To Aronson's question where he had been, Jacob, not being
an imaginative boy, gave an answer which was strictly truthful,
whereupon Aronson, not being a humorous young man (for such are always
grave), laughed immoderately, and proposed that the fire escape
henceforth be known as Jacob's ladder.