A CHANGE OF NAME
“Here's your way, sor,” said the policeman, turning into the old City
Hall, as it was even then known, and leading me to one of the inner
rooms of the labyrinth of offices.
The odors of the prison were heavy upon the building. The foul air from
the foul court-rooms and offices still hung about the entrance, and the
fog-laden breeze of the early morning hours was powerless to freshen it.
The policeman opened an office door, saluted, and motioned me to enter.
“Detective Coogan,” he said, “here's your man.”
Detective Coogan, from behind his desk, nodded with the careless dignity
of official position.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Wilton,” he said affably.
If I betrayed surprise at being called by Henry's name, Detective Coogan
did not notice it. But I hastened to disclaim the dangerous distinction.
“I am not Wilton,” I declared. “My name is Dudley--Giles Dudley.”
At this announcement Detective Coogan turned to the policeman. “Just
step into Morris' room, Corson, and tell him I'm going up to the
morgue.”
“Now,” he continued, as the policeman closed the door behind him, “this
won't do, Wilton. We've had to overlook a good deal, of course, but you
needn't think you can play us for suckers all the time.”
“But I tell you I'm not--” I began, when he interrupted me.
“You can't make that go here,” he said contemptuously. “And I'll tell
you what, Wilton, I shall have to take you into custody if you don't
come down to straight business. We don't want to chip in on the old
man's play, of course, especially as we don't know what his game is.”
Detective Coogan appeared to regret this admission that he was not
omniscient, and went on hastily: “You know as well as we do that we
don't want any fight with _him_. But I'll tell you right now that if you
force a fight, we'll make it so warm for him that he'll have to throw
_you_ overboard to lighten ship.”
Here was a fine prospect conveyed by Detective Coogan's picturesque
confusion of metaphors. If I persisted in claiming my own name and
person I was to be clapped into jail, and charged with Heaven-knows-what
crimes. If I took my friend's name, I was to invite the career of
adventure of which I had just had a taste. And while this was flashing
through my mind, I wondered idly who the “old man” could be. The note I
had received was certainly in a lady's hand. But if the lady was Henry's
employer, it was evident that he had dealt with the police as the
representative of a man of power.
My decision was of necessity promptly taken.
“Oh, well, if that's the way you look at it, Coogan,” I said carelessly,
“it's all right. I thought it was agreed that we weren't to know each
other.”
This was a chance shot, but it hit.
“Yes, yes,” said the detective, “I remember. But, you see, this is
serious business. Here's a murder on our hands, and from all I can learn
it's on account of your confounded schemes. We've got to know where we
stand, or there will be the Old Nick to pay. The papers will get hold of
it, and then--well, you remember that shake-up we had three years ago.”
“But you forget the 'old man,'” I returned. The name of that potent
Unknown seemed to be my only weapon in the contest with Detective
Coogan, and I thought this a time to try its force.
“Not much, I don't!” said Coogan, visibly disturbed. “But if it comes to
a choice, we'll have to risk a battle with him.”
“Well, maybe we're wasting time over a trifle,” said I, voicing my hope.
“Perhaps your dead man belongs somewhere else.”
“Come along to the morgue, then,” said he.
“Where was he found?” I asked as we walked out of the City Hall.
“He was picked up at about three o'clock in the back room of the
Hurricane Deck--the water-front saloon, you know--near the foot of
Folsom Street.”
Detective Coogan asked a number of questions as we walked, and in a few
minutes we came to the undertaker's shop that served as the city morgue.
At the best of times it could not be a place of cheer. In the hour
before daybreak, with the chill air of the morning almost suppressing
the yellow gaslights, the errand on which I had come made it the abode
of dread. Yet I hoped--hoped in such an agony of fear that I became
half-insensible to my surroundings.
“Here it is,” said Coogan, opening a door.
The low room was dark and chill and musty, but its details started forth
from the obscurity as he turned up the lights.
Detective Coogan's words seemed to come from a great distance as he
said: “Here, you see, he was stabbed. The knife went to the heart. Here
he was hit with something heavy and blunt; but it had enough of an
edge to cut the scalp and lay the cheek open. The skull is broken. See
here--”
I summoned my resolution and looked.
Disfigured and ghastly as it was, I recognized it. It was the face of
Henry Wilton.
The next I knew I was sitting on a bench, and the detective was holding
a bottle to my lips.
“There, take another swallow,” he said, not unkindly. “I didn't know you
weren't used to it.”
“Oh,” I gasped, “I'm all right now.” And I was able to look steadily at
the gruesome surroundings and the dreadful burden on the slab.
“Is this the man?” asked the detective.
“Yes.”
“His name?”
“Dudley--James Dudley.” I was not quite willing to transfer the whole of
my identity to the dead, and changed the Giles to James.
“Was he a relative?”
I shook my head, though I could not have said why I denied it. Then, in
answer to the detective's question, I told the story of the scuffle in
the alley, and of the events that followed.
“Did you see any of the men? To recognize them, I mean?”
I described the leader as well as I was able--the man with the face of
the wolf that I had seen in the lantern-flash.
Detective Coogan lost his listless air, and looked at me in
astonishment.
“I don't see your game, Wilton,” he said.
“I'm giving you the straight facts,” I said sullenly, a little disturbed
by his manner and tone.
“Well, in that case, I'd expect you to keep the straight facts to
yourself, my boy.”
It was my turn to be astonished.
“Well, that's my lookout,” I said with assumed carelessness.
“I don't see through you,” said the detective with some irritation. “If
you're playing with me to stop this inquiry by dragging in--well, we
needn't use names--you'll find yourself in the hottest water you ever
struck.”
“You can do as you please,” I said coolly.
The detective ripped out an oath.
“If I knew you were lying, Wilton, I'd clap you in jail this minute.”
“Well, if you want to take the risks--” I said smiling.
He looked at me for a full minute.
“Candidly, I don't, and you know it,” he said. “But this is a stunner on
me. What's your game, anyhow?”
I wished I knew.
“So accomplished a detective should not be at a loss to answer so simple
a question.”
“Well, there's only one course open, as I see,” he said with a groan.
“We've got to have a story ready for the papers and the coroner's jury.”
This was a new suggestion for me and I was alarmed.
“You can just forget your little tale about the row in the alley,” he
continued. “There's nothing to show that it had anything to do with this
man here. Maybe it didn't happen. Anyhow, just think it was a dream.
This was a water-front row--tough saloon--killed and robbed by parties
unknown. Maybe we'll have you before the coroner for the identification,
but maybe it's better not.”
I nodded assent. My mind was too numbed to suggest another course.
The gray dawn was breaking through the chill fog, and people were
stirring in the streets as Detective Coogan led the way out of the
morgue. As we parted he gave me a curious look.
“I suppose you know your own business, Wilton,” he said, “but I suspect
you'd be a sight safer if I'd clap you in jail.”
And with this consoling comment he was gone, and I was left in the dawn
of my first morning in San Francisco, mind and body at the nadir of
depression after the excitement and perils of the night.