KARKOWSKY GETS SOME ATTENTION
The next morning, contrary to Fuller's expectations, Ashton-Kirk did not
start out on a fresh trail. The discovery, as developed the night
before, was so curious that the young man was quite sure that it would
immediately lead to more surprising revelations. So he was greatly
astonished when he reached the old-fashioned house to learn from Stumph
that the secret agent had gone into the country.
"He took his fishing rods," explained Stumph, "and went to Jordan's
Mills. He said he'd be back to-morrow."
"He's gone down there to think things out," Fuller told himself, other
occasions of the same sort fresh in his mind. "A pipe, a green bank
under a tree, and a painted float to watch, are fine things to make
thoughts run. They just seem to drift along with the current."
Sure enough, the next afternoon Ashton-Kirk came back; there was a keen,
vigorous look about him that told of a freshening such as his aide had
pictured. He heard what Burgess had to say regarding his hunt for
Karkowsky as soon as he arrived, for the man was waiting for him.
"He's gone completely, so far as I can make out," the broad-shouldered
man informed him. "There's not a trace to be found in any direction.
I've questioned everybody I could find in the section who was acquainted
with him, but they knew only his name and thought him a pretty good sort
of fellow."
Ashton-Kirk said little in reply; but his manner showed that he was far
from satisfied. After dinner he smoked and walked about his study. Then
he went to his room.
A half hour later a tall, cadaverous-looking person, in a black coat and
with a silk hat, the nap of which was well worn, came down the stairs.
To Stumph he said:
"I shall be back in a few hours, perhaps. But should any one call, say
that I will see him in the morning."
"Very well, sir," said Stumph, gravely.
It was just fading from the late twilight to the early shadows of
evening when the cadaverous man turned the corner and headed toward
Fourth Street. His shoulders were bent and his gait was shuffling; the
thread gloves which he wore were broken in places here and there and the
black coat was a trifle short in the sleeves.
But he attracted little or no attention, for in that neighborhood
shabby characters were frequent enough. When once he got into his stride
it was astonishing to see how he covered the ground, for all the
shuffle. At Fourth Street and Corinth Avenue he halted and looked about.
It was now dark; the street lights were throwing their pale blue rays
into the hidden corners of the dirty highways; upon stoop and cellar
doors, throngs of soiled-looking men and women were congregated; hordes
of children were all about, and their cries were shrill and incessant.
"Brekling?" said a man with a peddler's cart. "Oh, yes, his place is
there on the corner."
A yellow gaslight burned dimly in the harness shop when the man in the
worn top hat entered. There was a heavy smell of leather and oil; the
floor was littered with scraps, and the broken parts of many sets of
harness were stacked up in the rear. A small man with round spectacles
and a dirty apron came forward; he had been reading a Polish newspaper
under the dim light.
"Well, sir," said he, inquiringly, and with a marked accent, "what can I
do for you this evening?"
"You have rooms to rent, I believe," said the other in a shaky sort of
voice.
Instantly the small man was all attention. He put down his newspaper and
beamed through his glasses at the stranger.
"I have one room," said he. "It is on the third floor, but it is a good
room and well furnished. Will you look at it?"
"Yes, if you please," quavered the man with the bent shoulders.
The little harness-maker lighted a candle and led the way to a staircase
at the side which opened into the street. A troop of children had
possession of it and their shrill outcries as they ran up and down were
deafening. Like a fury the Pole ran among them, scattering them right
and left.
"But they are good children," he told the prospective tenant, "and they
make very little noise."
The room was small and had a window opening upon a court; the furniture
was scant and the floor was bare.
"Once," confessed the little harness-maker, "I had a carpet for it; but
there were so many holes in it at last, that I took it up. Some day,"
hopefully, "I shall get another."
The other gave a glance about.
"I shall take it--if it is not too much."
"Six dollars a month is not too much," said the tradesman landlord. "It
is worth more."
"I'll give you five," stated the other, in his shaky voice.
The Pole gestured his despair; the candle went up and down and the two
huge shadows jigged grotesquely upon the wall.
"It is worth six," he said. "The last tenant paid that much without a
word."
"He was rich," suggested the other. "No one but a man of means would pay
that."
"He was not rich," protested Brekling. "He was as poor as a rat. I know
that, for he was a countryman of mine, and there are no rich Poles."
The man with the bent shoulders counted out five dollars in small coin
upon a table.
"I will pay a month in advance," said he.
The little man looked at the pile of silver for a moment; unable to
resist, he said:
"Very well, I will take it. But the room is worth more."
He scraped up the money and put it away in his pocket; the other took
off his hat and laid it upon the table and looked about with the manner
of a man at home.
"Have you any other lodgers?" he asked.
"There are three families on the floor below, and then there are a few
mechanics on this. But they are all decent people," earnestly.
"Sometimes they take a little too much, but not often. You will find
that they are quiet enough." Then after a look at his new tenant, "You
will move in at once?"
"To-morrow. And now, if you don't mind, I should like to be left
alone."
"Of course," said the little harness-maker. "Of course."
And so he went out and down the stairs to his shop. If he had been a
curious man and had loitered on the landing and put his eye to the
keyhole, he would have witnessed an unusual sight. For the door had no
sooner closed behind him than the cadaverous-looking man altered in
appearance like an enchanted prince in a fairy-tale. The bent shoulders
disappeared, the tread as he moved swiftly about the room was firm and
noiseless, the face became keen and resolute, the eyes alert and eager.
He drew off the long black coat and with sleeves tucked up began a
searching examination of the room. The closet, the bureau, the
wash-stand came first; then the edges of the floor. The contents of a
small sheet-iron stove were dragged out; amid the coal ash was much
burnt paper, but apparently nothing that brought the searcher any
reward. After about an hour, he stood in the center of the room,
defeated.
"Friend Karkowsky is a careful man," he muttered. "There is not a scrap
of anything."
He put on his coat and hat and left the room. Once outside the door, the
shuffle reappeared in his gait, the cadaverous look returned, and the
shoulders bent wearily. In the shop, the harness-maker was once more
engaged with the Polish newspaper; he looked up as his new tenant came
in.
"Your last lodger was not careful," complained the latter in his shaky
voice. "The room is in quite a state."
"But I will fix it," announced the Pole accommodatingly. "I always treat
my lodgers right; never has one complained. But _I_ often had to
complain. Now, that same man--the one that had your room last--gave me
much trouble. Would you believe it, the police came at last!"
"Ah, yes. He was a disturber."
"No, no. Indeed, he was very quiet. Even when the other lodgers made a
noise he did not get mad. The only person he ever quarreled with was
Jackson."
"And who is Jackson?"
"He is the postman. It was something about letters that they fought
over. Once Karkowsky called the letter man a dunce. But Jackson only
laughed."
An hour later, in his study, Ashton-Kirk took down the telephone
receiver and asked for a certain number. When he was connected he asked:
"Is that Postal Station Seven?"
"It is," came the reply.
"Can you give me the address of Postman Jackson, attached to that
station?"
"No. But I can tell you where you can get him if you want him to-night."
"I'll be obliged to you."
"Call up Wonderleigh's place; he's sure to be there at this hour,
playing pinochle in the back room. The number's 35-79 Parkside."
In a few moments the secret agent had Mr. Jackson on the wire.
"I want to speak to you about Karkowsky, lately on your route," said he.
There was a laugh at the other end; then the postman answered:
"This ain't the police?"
"Not exactly, but something of the sort."
"Well, I've kind of expected that somebody would ask me about that old
scout; they seem to have asked everybody else."
"Would you mind telling me about the trouble you had with him regarding
some letters?"
"Oh, that! Sure. You see, Karkowsky for the first while that he lived at
Brekling's place received a letter a couple of times a week that always
got my attention. It was in a woman's writing--kind of a foreign writing
that was mighty hard to make out. It was always a brown, square
envelope, and it was always post-marked at Central Station. I couldn't
tell you all this about most of the letters I handle, but this one gave
me so much trouble at first finding out what the address was that I knew
it by heart.
"One day I handed one of them to Karkowsky, and he threw it back at me.
"'That's not for me,' he said. And sure enough it wasn't. It was for
another party a couple of blocks away--a party that was new to my route.
This same mistake happened a couple of times--me being so used to the
letters that I never looked at 'em twice--and every time old Karkowsky
got his back up. One day I kidded him about losing his girl and said I
guessed some other fellow had won her out, seeing that he was getting
all the letters, and Karkowsky swore. He called me some hard names that
day and threatened to report me. So I cut out the jokes."
"When the letters began arriving for the second person they ceased for
Karkowsky?"
"Right away. He never got another one."
There was a moment's silence; then the secret agent asked:
"Can you recall this other person's name?"
"Oh, yes. It's Kendreg. He lives on the top floor of 424 Lowe Street."
After Ashton-Kirk had hung up he sat for a few moments, a peculiar
expression on his face. Then he pressed one of the row of buttons. While
awaiting a response, he penciled a few lines upon a tablet; when Fuller
came in he tore off the sheet and handed it to him.
"Give this to Burgess," he requested. "Have him look this person up
quietly. Tell him to work under cover as much as possible; and to
especially note if he has any women visitors."
"Very well," said Fuller; and turning he left the room.