THE QUARRY.
Half an hour later, Sturgis was walking briskly down Broadway, with
his usual air of absent-minded concentration. Presently he turned into
a side street and at once slackened his pace. He now sauntered along
like a lounger at a loss how to kill a long idle day. The show window
of a bric-à-brac shop arrested his attention. He stopped to examine its
contents.
A little farther up the street was a liquor saloon, outside of which
stood a group of boisterous young rowdies. An older man, evidently
in his cups, was seated on an adjoining stoop, where, with maudlin
gravity, he seemed to be communing with himself.
On the opposite side of the way stood a low, dilapidated brick house.
A painted sign over the windows of the ground floor bore the name,
"MANHATTAN CHEMICAL CO."
The drunken man rose unsteadily to his feet and approached Sturgis with
outstretched hand.
"Say, Jimmy, get on ter his nibs strikin' de bloke fur a nickel ter git
med'cine fur his sick mudder," exclaimed one of the young ruffians.
The wretched-looking individual thus designated seemed hardly able to
stand as he steadied himself against an iron railing; but the eyes he
turned upon Sturgis were bright with intelligence, and the words he
spoke were uttered in a low, firm voice.
"He's been here--been here twice."
"Twice?" echoed Sturgis, surprised. "Where is he now?"
"I don't know----"
"You don't know?"
"No, sir; but I guess Conklin does. This is how it is: It was my watch
yesterday afternoon when Chatham came the first time. He went into
the Manhattan Company's place through the basement at a quarter after
five. So I just settled myself out here and waited. Well, I waited
and waited, but there wasn't any sign of Chatham, and when Flagler
came along to relieve me at ten o'clock Chatham hadn't come out yet.
Flagler he spotted the place until six this morning, and then Conklin
took his turn again until two o'clock, when I came on for my watch.
Just as Conklin was telling me how things stood, who should come down
the street but Chatham himself, large as life."
"Down the street?" exclaimed Sturgis.
"Yes, sir. And up he goes, as if nothing had happened, and into the
Manhattan Chemical Company's place again."
"He had put up the back-door game on you," said the reporter.
"Yes, sir; just what I said to Conklin. So, quick as a wink, I sent him
around the block to keep his eye peeled on the next street and I waited
here. And here I've been ever since. If Conklin isn't on the block
above, it must be because Chatham has made tracks again, and he after
him."
"I'll go and find out," said Sturgis. "Has any one else called at the
Manhattan Chemical Company's office since you have been on watch?"
"No, sir; but a couple of hours ago an express wagon came along
and delivered a long wooden box; might have been chemicals for the
wholesale department, for it was lowered to the cellar by the hoist in
the areaway. The blond young man receipted for the box."
"Very well, Shrady. Hang on a little while longer, and I shall have you
relieved just as soon as I possibly can."
So saying, the reporter, who had been pretending to look through
his pockets for a coin, ostentatiously slipped a nickel into the
outstretched palm before him. The light seemed to die out of the sharp
eyes of the detective, and it was the miserable drunkard who staggered
back to his place on the stoop next to the saloon, unmindful of the
gibes of the young rowdies congregated there.
Sturgis walked up to the next street, where he found a second detective
on duty.
"Anything new, Conklin?" he asked.
"No, sir; he's been lying low; looks like he knew he was spotted this
time."
"Good. Stay here until I can notify the police that we have run down
the quarry. It will be necessary to obtain a search warrant for the
Manhattan Chemical Company's place. In the meantime, if Chatham should
attempt to make tracks, hang on to him like his shadow and send back
word here as soon as you can."
"All right, sir."
Sturgis, after leaving Conklin, walked along the street which the
detective was watching and carefully inspected every house on the
block. Almost all were huge office buildings; but here and there an
old-fashioned brown-stone front stood out conspicuously against the
broad expanse of brick walls and iron columns. Half way down the street
one of these old houses stood well back from the street line behind a
small garden. The reporter stopped near this and read the numbers on
the adjoining buildings.
"This is directly back of the Manhattan Chemical Company's office,"
he mused. "I wonder who lives here. It looks like a respectable place
enough. One could obtain a good view of the rear of the Manhattan
Chemical Company's office from the back windows. H'm----"
He stood thoughtfully considering what pretext he could use to gain
admission to the house, when suddenly he became aware of the presence
of a man who had approached with noiseless steps.
"Ah, is that you, Mr. Sturgis?" said the calm, sardonical voice of
Doctor Murdock.
The reporter started inwardly but gave no outward sign of surprise.
"Were you about to do me the honor of calling?" continued the chemist.
"Yes," said Sturgis, deliberately; "I was about to seek an interview
with you. Can you spare a few minutes?"
"Who is it that asks for the interview?" inquired Murdock, with quiet
sarcasm. "Is it Mr. Sturgis, gentleman, Mr. Sturgis, reporter, or----"
Sturgis met a cold gleam from Murdock's inscrutable eyes.
"Or Mr. Sturgis, the famous detective?" continued the chemist with an
imperceptible sneer.
"I represent the _Tempest_," replied the reporter quietly.
Murdock glanced carelessly up and down the street. There was no one in
sight.
"Oh! very well," he said, taking out his latch-key and leading the way
to the house; "come into my study and let me hear what I can do for the
_Tempest_."
On entering the house, Murdock motioned Sturgis to the door leading
from the hall into the drawing-room.
"If you will step into the parlor for a few minutes, I shall be with
you directly," said he.
Sturgis nodded acquiescence, and, while Murdock walked toward his
study, which was at the extreme rear of the hall, the reporter opened
the drawing-room door. He did not open it very wide, however, neither
did he enter; for although the room was rather dark, his quick eye
caught a passing glimpse of a feminine head cosily nestled upon
a distinctly masculine shoulder, the owner of which had his back
turned to him. Bachelor cynic though he was, Sturgis had not the
heart to interrupt so interesting a situation; and, as the couple
were so absorbed that they had not noticed the intrusion upon their
tête-à-tête, he discreetly retreated and softly closed the door.
By this time Murdock had passed into his study, so that Sturgis found
himself alone in the hall. He was glad of a short respite during which
he might collect his thoughts; for, having been taken by surprise, he
had not had time to select a plausible topic for the interview which he
had solicited from Murdock. Not knowing that the house was that of the
chemist, his sole object had been to gain admittance, so that he might
be able to observe the Manhattan Chemical Company's offices from the
rear, and if possible to ascertain how Chatham had managed to give the
detectives the slip the first time he appeared to them.
Now that he was in the house the reporter was confronted with the
necessity of explaining his presence there without betraying his true
purpose. This would not have been a difficult matter had the inmates
of the house been total strangers; but he felt that it would be by no
means so easy to offer an explanation which would be satisfactory to
a man of Murdock's keen perception. And Murdock was the last person
to whom he would have confided the true reason of his visit; not only
because the chemist, as his opponent in the wager concerning the
Knickerbocker Bank Mystery, was interested in thwarting rather than
in aiding his investigation, but chiefly because he felt a strong
instinctive distrust of the man.
As these thoughts were passing through the reporter's mind, he slowly
paced the long hall, back and forth, with his hands behind his back. In
so doing, he passed a door which was slightly ajar and caught a glimpse
of long rows of book-shelves loaded with beautifully bound editions.
The place was evidently the library. It occurred to him that a library
is a public room and that he would be more comfortable in there than in
the hall.
He pushed open the door and looked in. The room was empty. He entered.
The library occupied a space between the parlor and the rear room into
which Murdock had entered, and it was separated from each of these
rooms by folding-doors over which hung heavy portières.
Sturgis was a lover of books; his interest was at once aroused in the
collection before him. It was admirably selected from the standpoint
of a philosopher and a man of science. Every department of history, of
philosophy and of science had its section, in which the volumes were
classified and arranged with intelligent care. But curiously enough,
poetry and art were but meagerly represented.
One section especially attracted Sturgis's attention. It was devoted
entirely to the history of crime in all its phases and in all ages.
Criminal statistics, criminal jurisprudence and the psychology of
crime, as well as the biographies of all the noted criminals of ancient
and modern times, were completely represented. Almost the only works
of fiction in the collection were in this section, and included every
book imaginable concerning criminals and their deeds. Many rare and
curious volumes were there--some of them so rare that they could be
found in only a few of the great libraries of the world.
Here Sturgis was in his element. He had himself collected a valuable
library on the subjects kindred to his profession; but here were books
many of which none but a Crœsus could ever hope to own. He was soon
absorbed in an examination of some rare volumes which he had often
longed to possess.
While thus engaged, he became aware of the murmur of voices from the
rear room. As the words spoken could not be distinguished, he paid no
special attention to them; but, instinctively, he noted that one of the
voices flowed in the calm, even tones so characteristic of Murdock's
speech, while the other, whose timbre and modulations were unknown to
him, betrayed the repressed excitement of the speaker.
It soon became evident that Murdock's interlocutor was fast losing
control of himself; for he gradually pitched his voice in a higher
key, until occasional words began to reach Sturgis's ears. The
reporter was not the man to wantonly play the part of eavesdropper;
therefore, although the isolated words which reached him brought no
connected sense, he judged that it was time to move out of earshot of
the conversation to which he was becoming an involuntary listener.
Replacing upon its shelf the book which he had been examining, he
started toward the hall door. As he did so, he heard the now thoroughly
excited individual exclaim in loud tones:
"I don't care a damn for the money. I only went into the scheme because
you promised she'd have me; and, by God, if I don't get her, I'll give
the whole cursed thing away."
Sturgis, who had reached the hall door, pricked up his detective's
ears at these words. But in another second he heard the knobs of the
folding-doors rattle, as though some one had placed his hands upon them.
Quick as thought, he opened the door and glided out into the hallway.
He had not time to pull the door quite to behind him when the
folding-doors opened and he heard Murdock say in his calm, frigid
tones:
"Perhaps you have done that already with your dulcet voice."
Had Murdock seen him? The reporter asked himself the question. Probably
not; for he heard the folding-doors close once more.