A CRY FOR HELP
I hastily closed and locked the door. It shut out at least the eyes and
ears that, to my excited imagination, lurked in the dark corners and
half-hidden doorways of the dimly-lighted hall. And as I turned back to
the room my heart was heavy with bitter regret that I had ever left my
home.
This was not at all what I had looked for when I started for the Golden
Gate at my friend's offer of a “good place and a chance to get rich.”
Then I rallied my spirits with something of resolution, and shamed
myself with the reproach that I should fear to share any danger that
Henry was ready to face. Wearied as I was with travel, I was too much
excited for sleep. Reading was equally impossible. I scarcely glanced
at the shelf of books that hung on the wall, and turned to a study of my
surroundings.
The room was on the corner, as I have said, and I threw up the sash
of the west window and looked out over a tangle of old buildings,
ramshackle sheds, and an alley that appeared to lead nowhere. A wooden
shutter swung from the frame-post of the window, reaching nearly to
a crazy wooden stair that led from the black depths below. There were
lights here and there in the back rooms. Snatches of drunken song and
rude jest came up from an unseen doggery, and vile odors came with them.
Shadows seemed to move here and there among the dark places, but in the
uncertain light I could not be sure whether they were men, or only boxes
and barrels.
Some sound of a drunken quarrel drew my attention to the north window,
and I looked out into the alley. The lights from Montgomery Street
scarcely gave shape to the gloom below the window, but I could
distinguish three or four men near the side entrance of a saloon. They
appeared quiet enough. The quarrel, if any there was, must be inside the
saloon. After an interval of comparative silence, the noise rose again.
There were shouts and curses, sounds as of a chair broken and tables
upset, and one protesting, struggling inebriate was hurled out from the
front door and left, with threats and foul language, to collect himself
from the pavement.
This edifying incident, which was explained to me solely by sound, had
scarcely come to an end when a noise of creaking boards drew my eyes to
the other window. The shutter suddenly flew around, and a human figure
swung in at the open casing. Astonishment at this singular proceeding
did not dull the instinct of self-defense. The survey of my surroundings
and the incident of the bar-room row had in a measure prepared me for
any desperate doings, and I had swung a chair ready to strike a blow
before I had time to think.
“S-h-h!” came the warning whisper, and I recognized my supposed robber.
It was Henry.
His clothes and hair were disordered, and his face and hands were grimy
with dust.
“Don't speak out loud,” he said in suppressed tones. “Wait till I fasten
this shutter. The other one's gone, but nobody can get in from that side
unless they can shin up thirty feet of brick wall.”
“Shall I shut the window?” I asked, thoroughly impressed by his manner.
“No, you'll make too much noise,” he said, stripping off his coat and
vest. “Here, change clothes with me. Quick! It's a case of life and
death. I must be out of here in two minutes. Do as I say, now. Don't ask
questions. I'll tell you about it in a day or two. No, just the coat and
vest. There--give me that collar and tie. Where's your hat?”
The changes were completed, or rather his were, and he stood looking as
much like me as could be imagined.
“Don't stir from this room till I come back,” he whispered. “You can
dress in anything of mine you like. I'll be in before twelve, or send a
messenger if I'm not coming. By-by.”
He was gone before I could say a word, and only an occasional creaking
board told me of his progress down the stairs. He had evidently had some
practice in getting about quietly. I could only wonder, as I closed and
locked the door, whether it was the police or a private enemy that he
was trying to avoid.
I had small time to speculate on the possibilities, for outside the
window I heard the single word, “Help!”
The cry was half-smothered, and followed by a gurgling sound and noise
as of a scuffle in the alley.
I rushed to the window and looked out. A band of half a dozen men was
struggling and pushing away from Montgomery Street into the darker end
of the alley. They were nearly under the window.
“Give it to him,” said a voice.
In an instant there came a scream, so freighted with agony that it burst
the bonds of gripping fingers and smothering palms that tried to close
it in, and rose for the fraction of a second on the foul air of the
alley. Then a light showed and a tall, broad-shouldered figure leaped
back.
“These aren't the papers,” it hissed. “Curse on you, you've got the
wrong man!”
There was a moment's confusion, and the light flashed on the man who
had spoken and was gone. But that flash had shown me the face of a man I
could never forget--a man whose destiny was bound up for a brief period
with mine, and whose wicked plans have proved the master influence of
my life. It was a strong, cruel, wolfish face--the face of a man near
sixty, with a fierce yellow-gray mustache and imperial--a face broad at
the temples and tapering down into a firm, unyielding jaw, and marked
then with all the lines of rage, hatred, and chagrin at the failure of
his plans.
It took not a second for me to see and hear and know all this, for the
vision came and was gone in the dropping of an eyelid. And then there
echoed through the alley loud cries of “Police! Murder! Help!” I was
conscious that there was a man running through the hall and down the
rickety stairs, making the building ring to the same cries. My own
feelings were those of overmastering fear for my friend. He had gone on
his mysterious, dangerous errand, and I felt that it was he who had been
dragged into the alley, and stabbed, perhaps to death. Yet it seemed I
could make no effort, nor rouse myself from the stupor of terror into
which I was thrown by the scene I had witnessed.
It was thus with a feeling of surprise that I found myself in the
street, and came to know that the cries for help had come from me, and
that I was the man who had run through the hall and down the stairs
shouting for the police.
Singularly enough there was no crowd to be seen, and no excitement
anywhere. Some one was playing a wheezy melodeon in the saloon, and men
were singing a drunken song. The alley was dark, and I could see no
one in its depths. The house through which I had flown shouting was now
silent, and if any one on the street had heard me he had hurried on and
closed his ears, lest evil befall him. Fortunately the policeman on the
beat was at hand, and I hailed him excitedly.
“Only rolling a drunk,” he said lightly, as I told of what I had seen.
“No, it's worse than that,” I insisted. “There was murder done, and I'm
afraid it's my friend.”
He listened more attentively as I told him how Henry had left the house
just before the cry for help had risen.
The policeman took me by the shoulders, turned me to the gaslight, and
looked in my face.
“Excuse me, sor,” he said. “I see you're not one of that kind. Some of
'em learns it from the blitherin' Chaneymen.”
I was mystified at the moment, but I found later that he suspected me of
having had an opium dream. The house, I learned, was frequented by the
“opium fiends,” as they figure in police slang.
“It's a nasty place,” he continued. “It's lucky I've got a light.” He
brought up a dark lantern from his overcoat pocket, and stood in the
shelter of the building as he lighted it. “There's not many as carries
'em,” he continued, “but they're mighty handy at times.”
We made our way to the point beneath the window, where the men had
stood.
There was nothing to be seen--no sign of struggle, no shred of torn
clothing, no drop of blood. Body, traces and all had disappeared.