MOTHER BORTON'S ADVICE
I studied the note carefully, and then turned to Policeman Corson.
“When did she give you this--and where?”
“A lady?” said Corson with a grin. “Ah, Mr. Wilton, it's too sly she is
to give it to me. 'Twas a boy askin' for ye. 'Do you know him?' says
he. 'I do that,' says I. 'Where is he?' says he. 'I don't know,' says
I. 'Has 'e a room?' says he. 'He has,' says I. 'Where is it?' says he.
'What's that to you?' says I--”
“Yes, yes,” I interrupted. “But where did he get the note?”
“I was just tellin' ye, sor,” said the policeman amiably. “He shoves the
note at me ag'in, an' says he, 'It's important,' says he. 'Go up there,'
says I. 'Last room, top floor, right-hand side.' Before I comes to
the corner up here, he's after me ag'in. 'He's gone,' says he. 'Like
enough,' says I. 'When'll he be back?' says he. 'When the cows come
home, sonny,' says I. 'Then there'll be the divil to pay,' says he. I
pricks up my ears at this. 'Why?' says I. 'Oh, he'll be killed,' says
he, 'and I'll git the derndest lickin',' says he. 'What's up?' says I,
makin' a grab for him. But he ducks an' blubbers. 'Gimme that letter,'
says I, 'and you just kite back to the folks that sent you, and tell
them what's the matter. I'll give your note to your man if he comes
while I'm on the beat,' says I. I knows too much to try to git anything
more out of him. I says to meself that Mr. Wilton ain't in the safest
place in the world, and this kid's folks maybe means him well, and might
know some other place to look for him. The kid jaws a bit, an' then does
as I tells him, an' cuts away. That's half an hour ago, an' here you
are, an' here's your letter.”
I hesitated for a little before saying anything. It was with quick
suspicion that I wondered why Mother Borton had secured again that
gloomy and deserted house for the interview she was planning. That
mystery of the night, with its memories of the fight in the bar-room,
the escape up the stair, the fearsome moments I had spent locked in the
vacant place, came on me with nerve-shaking force. It was more likely to
be a trap than a meeting meant for my advantage. There was, indeed, no
assurance that the note was written by Mother Borton herself. It might
well be the product of the gentlemen who had been lending such variety
to an otherwise uninteresting existence.
All these considerations flashed through my mind in the seconds of
hesitation that passed before my reply to Policeman Corson's account.
“That was very kind of you. You didn't know what was in the letter
then?”
“No, sor,” replied Corson with a touch of wounded pride. “It's not me as
would open another man's letter, unless in the way of me duty.”
“Do you know Mother Borton?” I continued.
“Know her? know her?” returned Corson in a tone scornful of doubt on
such a point. “Do I know the slickest crook in San Francisco? Ah,
it's many a story I could tell you, Mr. Wilton, of the way that ould
she-divil has slipped through our fingers when we thought our hands
were on her throat. And it's many of her brood we have put safe in San
Quentin.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said I dryly. “But the woman has done me a
service--saved my life, I may say--and I'm willing to forget the bad in
her.”
“That's not for me to say, sor; but there's quare things happens, no
doubt.”
“This note,” I continued, “is written over her name. I don't know
whether it came from her, or not; but if she sent it I must see her. It
may be a case of life or death for me.”
“An' if it didn't come from her?” asked the policeman shrewdly.
“Then,” said I grimly, “it's likely to be a case of death if I venture
alone.”
“I'll tell you what, Mr. Wilton,” said Corson after a pause. “If you'll
wait a bit, I'll go with you--that is, if there isn't somebody else
you'd like better to have by your side to-night. You don't look to have
any of your friends about.”
“Just the thing,” I said heartily. “There's no one I'd rather have.
We'll go down as soon as we can get a bite to eat.”
“I'll have to wait a bit, sor, till my relief comes. He'll be along
soon. As for getting a bite, you can't do better than wait till you get
to Mother Borton's. It's a rough place, but it's got a name for good
cooking.”
I was bewildered.
“I guess there's not much to be got in the way of eating in the house.
There was nothing left in it yesterday morning but the rats.” I spoke
with considerable emphasis.
“That's square, now,” he said, looking to see if there was a jest behind
the words. “But 'twas all there when McPherson and I put a club to
a drunk as was raising the Ould Nick in the place and smashing the
bottles, not six hours ago. When we took him away in the ixpriss wagon
the ould woman was rowling out those long black curses in a way that
would warm the heart of the foul fiend himself.”
There was some fresh mystery about this. I held my tongue with the
reflection that I had better let it straighten itself out than risk a
stumble by asking about things I ought to know.
Corson's relief soon appeared. “It's a nasty night,” he said, buttoning
up his overcoat closely, as Corson gave him a brief report of the
situation on the beat.
“It's good for them as likes it dark,” said Corson.
“It's just such a night as we had when Donaldson was murdered. Do you
mind it?”
“Do I mind it? Am I likely to forgit it? Well, a pleasant time to you,
me boy. Come along, sor. We'd better be moving. You won't mind stepping
up to the hall with me, will ye, while I report?”
“Certainly not,” I said with a shiver, half at the grim suggestion of
murder and half at the chill of the fog and the cutting wind that blew
the cold vapor through to the skin.
“You've no overcoat,” said Corson. “We'll stop and get one. I'll have
mine from the station.”
The silence of the house of mystery was no less threatening now than on
the night when Henry Wilton was walking through the halls on the way
to his death. But the stout-hearted policeman by my side gave me
confidence, and no sign showed the presence of an enemy as I secured
Henry's heavy overcoat and the large revolver he had given me, and we
took our way down the stairs.
A short visit to the grimy, foul-smelling basement of the City Hall,
where a few policemen looked at me wonderingly, a brisk walk with the
cutting wind at our backs and the fog currents hurrying and whirling in
eddies toward the bay, and I felt rather than saw that we were in the
neighborhood of the scene of my adventures of a night that had come so
near costing me my life. I could not be certain of my bearings, but I
trusted to the unconscious guidance of Corson, with a confused idea
that we were bearing away from the place. Then with relief combined
with bewilderment, I saw the lantern sign give forth its promise of the
varied entertainment that could be had at Borton's.
“Here we are,” said Corson.
We pushed open the door and entered. The place had the same appearance
as the one to which I had been taken by Dicky Nahl.
“A fine night, Mother Borton,” said Corson cheerily, as he was the first
to enter, and then added under his breath, “--for the divil's business.”
Mother Borton stared at him with a black look and muttered a curse.
“Good evening,” I hastened to say. “I took the liberty to bring a
friend; he doesn't come as an officer to-night.”
The effect on the hag's features was marvelous. The black scowl
lightened, the tight-drawn lips relaxed, and there was a sign of
pleasure in the bright eyes that had flashed hatred at the policeman.
“Ah, it's you, is it?” she said sharply, but with a tone of kindness in
her greeting. “I didn't see ye. Now sit down and find a table, and I'll
be with ye after a bit.”
“We want a dinner, and a good one. I'm half-starved.”
“Are ye, honey?” said the woman with delight.
“Then it's the best dinner in town ye shall have. Here, Jim! Put these
gentlemen over there at the corner table.”
And if the cooking was not what we could have had at the Maison Dorée
and the service was a little off color, neither of us was disposed to be
critical.
“It's not the aristocracy of stoile ye get here,” said Corson, lighting
his pipe after the coffee, “but it's prime eating.”
I nodded in lazy contentment, and then started up in remembrance of the
occasion of our being in this place as the shadow of Mother Borton fell
across the table. Her keen eyes fixed on me and her sharp beak nodding
toward me gave her the uncanny aspect of a bird of prey, and I felt a
sinking of courage as I met her glance.
“If you will go upstairs,” she said sourly. “You know the way. I guess
your friend can spare you.”
“Is there anything that can't be told before him?” I asked.
The features of the old woman hardened.
“You'll be safer in my care than in his,” she said, with warning in her
tone.
“Yes, yes, I know I am safe here, but how is it with my friend if I
leave him here? We came together and we'll go together.”
The crone nodded with a laugh that ended in a snarl.
“If the gang knew he was here there would be more fun than you saw the
other night.”
“Don't worry about me, Mr. Wilton,” said Corson with a grin. “I've stood
her crowd off before, and I can do it again if the need comes. But I'd
rather smoke a poipe in peace.”
“You can smoke in peace, but it's not yourself you can thank for it,”
said Mother Borton sharply. “There'll be no trouble here to-night. Come
along.” And the old woman started for the door.
“Are you sure you're all right?” asked Corson in a low voice. “There's
men gone up those stairs that came down with a sheet over them.”
“It's all right--that is, unless there's any danger to you in leaving
you here.”
“No. Go ahead. I'll wait for ye. I'd as lief sit here as anywheres.”
I hastened after Mother Borton, who was glowering at me from the
doorway, and followed her footsteps in silence to the floor above. There
was a dim light and a foul smell in the upper hall, both of which came
from a lamp that burned with a low flame on a bracket by the forward
stair. There were perhaps a dozen doors to be seen, all closed, but
all giving the discomforting suggestion that they had eyes to mark my
coming.
Mother Borton walked the passage cautiously and in silence, and I
followed her example until she pushed open a door and was swallowed up
in the blackness. Then I paused on the threshold while she lighted a
candle; and as I entered, she swiftly closed and locked the door behind
me.
“Sit down,” she said in a harsh voice, motioning me to a chair by the
stand that held the candle. Then this strange creature seated herself
in front of me, and looked steadily and sternly in my face for a full
minute. The gaze of the piercing, deep-sunken eyes of the old hag, the
evil lines that marked the lean, sharp features, gaining a still more
sinister meaning from the wavering, flickering light thrown upon
her face by the candle, gave me a feeling of anything but ease in my
position.
“What have you done that I should help you?” she broke forth in a harsh
voice, her eyes still fixed on my face.
“I really couldn't say,” I replied politely. “You have done me one or
two services already. That's the best reason I know why you should do me
another.”
The hard lines on the face before me relaxed at the sound of my voice,
and the old woman nodded approvingly.
“Ay, reason enough, I guess. Them as wants better can find it
themselves. But why did you sneak out of the house the other night like
a cop in plain clothes? Didn't I go bail you were safe? Do you want any
better word than mine?” she had begun almost softly, but the voice grew
higher and harsher as she went on.
“Why,” I said, bewildered again, “the house sneaked away from me--or, at
least you left me alone in it.”
“How was that?” she asked grimly. And I described graphically my
experience in the deserted building.
As I proceeded with my tale an amused look replaced the harsh lines of
suspicion on Mother Borton's face.
“Oh, my lud!” she cried with a chuckle. “Oh, my lud! how very green
you are, my boy. Oh ho! oh ho!” And then she laughed an inward,
self-consuming laugh that called up anything but the feeling of
sympathetic mirth.
“I'm glad it amuses you,” I said with injured dignity.
“Oh, my liver! Don't you see it yet? Don't you see that you climbed into
the next house back, and went through on to the other street?” And she
relapsed into her state of silent merriment.
I felt foolish enough as the truth flashed over me. I had lost my
sense of direction in the strange house, and had been deceived by the
resemblance of the ground plan of the two buildings.
“But what about the plot?” I asked. “I got your note. It's very
interesting. What about it?”
“What plot?”
“Why, I don't know. The one you wrote me about.”
Mother Borton bent forward and searched my face with her keen glance.
“Oh,” she said at last, “the one I wrote you about. I'd forgotten it.”
This was disheartening. How could I depend on one whose memory was thus
capricious?
“Yes,” said I gloomily; “I supposed you might know something about it.”
“Show me the note,” she said sharply.
I fumbled through my pockets until I found it. Mother Borton clutched
it, held it up to the candle, and studied it for two or three minutes.
“Where did you get it?”
I described the circumstances in which it had come into my possession,
and repeated the essentials of Corson's story. Mother Borton's sharp,
evil face was impassive during my recital. When it was done she
muttered:
“Gimme a fool for luck.” Then she appeared to consider for a minute or
more.
“Well?” said I inquiringly.
“Well, honey, you're having a run of the cards,” she said at last.
“Between having the message trusted to a fool boy, and having a cop
for your friend, an' maybe gitting this note before you're expected to,
you're setting here genteel-like having agreeable conversation along
with me, instead of being in company you mightn't like so well--or maybe
floating out toward Fort Point.”
“So you didn't write it?” I said coolly. “I had an idea of the kind.
That's why my friend Corson is smoking his pipe down stairs.”
Mother Borton gave me a pleased look and nodded. I hoped I had made her
regret the cruel insinuation in her application of the proverb to me as
the favorite of fortune.
“I see,” I said. “I was to be waylaid on the road here and killed.”
“Carried off, more likely. I don't say as it wouldn't end in killin' ye.
But, you see, you'd be of mighty small use in tellin' tales if you was
dead; but you might be got to talk if they had ye in a quiet place.”
“Good reasoning. But Henry Wilton was killed.”
“Yes,” admitted Mother Borton; “they thought he carried papers, and
maybe they ain't got over the idea yit. It's jest as well you're here
instid of having a little passear with Tom Terrill and Darby Meeker and
their pals.”
“Well,” said I, as cheerfully as I could under the depressing
circumstances, “if they want to kill me, I don't see how I can keep them
from getting a chance sooner or later.”
Mother Borton looked anxious at this, and shook her head.
“You must call on your men,” she said decidedly. “You must have guards.”
“By the way,” I said, “that reminds me. The men haven't been paid, and
they're looking to me for money.”
“Who's looking to you for money?”
“Dicky Nahl--and the others, I suppose.”
“Dicky Nahl?”
“Why, yes. He asked me for it.”
“And you gave it to him?” she asked sharply.
“No-o--that is, I gave him ten dollars, and told him he'd have to wait
for the rest. I haven't got the money from the one that's doing the
hiring yet, so I couldn't pay him.”
Mother Borton gave an evil grin, and absorbed another inward laugh.
“I reckon the money'll come all right,” said Mother Borton, recovering
from her mirth. “There's one more anxious than you to have 'em paid, and
if you ain't found out you'll have it right away. Now for guards, take
Trent--no, he's hurt. Take Brown and Porter and Barkhouse and Fitzhugh.
They're wide-awake, and don't talk much. Take 'em two and two, and never
go without 'em, night or day. You stop here to-night, and I'll git 'em
for you to-morrow.”
I declined the proffered hospitality with thanks, and as a compromise
agreed to call for my bodyguard in the early morning. Rejoining Corson,
I explained Mother Borton's theory of the plot that had brought me
thither.
“She's like to be right,” said the policeman. “She knows the gang. Now,
if you'll take my advice, you'll let the rats have your room for this
night, and come along up to some foine hotel.”
The advice appeared good, and fifteen minutes later Corson was drinking
my health at the Lick House bar, and calling on the powers of light and
darkness to watch over my safety as I slept.
Whether due to his prayers or not, my sleep was undisturbed, even by
dreams of Doddridge Knapp and his charming but scornful daughter; and
with the full tide of life and business flowing through the streets
in the morning hours I found myself once more in Mother Borton's dingy
eating-room, ordering a breakfast.
Mother Borton ignored my entrance, and, perched on a high stool behind
the bar and cash-drawer, reminded me of the vulture guarding its prey.
But at last she fluttered over to my table and took a seat opposite.
“Your men are here,” she said shortly. And then, as I expressed my
thanks, she warmed up and gave me a description by which I should know
each and led me to the room where, as she said, they were “corralled.”
“By the way,” I said, halting outside the door, “they'll want some
money, I suppose. Do you know how much?”
“They're paid,” she said, and pushed open the door before I could
express surprise or ask further questions. I surmised that she had
paid them herself to save me from annoyance or possible danger, and my
gratitude to this strange creature rose still higher.
The four men within the room saluted me gravely and with Mother Borton's
directions in mind I had no hesitation in calling each by his name. I
was pleased to see that they were robust, vigorous fellows, and soon
made my dispositions. Brown and Barkhouse were to attend me during
daylight, and Fitzhugh and Porter were to guard together at night. And,
so much settled, I hastened to the office.
No sign of Doddridge Knapp disturbed the morning, and at the noon hour
I returned to the room in the house of mystery that was still my only
fixed abode.
All was apparently as I had left it, except that a letter lay on the
table.
“I must get a new lock,” was my comment, as I broke the seal. “This
place is getting too public when every messenger has a key.” I was
certain that I had locked the door when Corson and I had come out on the
evening before.
The letter was from my unknown employer, and read:
“Richmond has paid the men. Be ready for a move at any moment. Leave
your address if you sleep elsewhere.”
And now came three or four days of rest and quiet after the merry life I
had been leading since my arrival in San Francisco.
No word did I get from Doddridge Knapp. I kept close watch of the stock
market, and gossiped with speculators and brokers, for I wished to know
at once if he had employed another agent. My work would lie in another
direction if such should prove to be the case. But there was no movement
in Omega, and I could hear no hint of another deal that might show a
trace of his dexterous hand. “Quiet trading,” was the report from all
quarters.
“Fact is,” said Wallbridge on the fourth day, trying to look doleful, “I
haven't made enough this week to pay for the gas--and I don't burn any.”
In the interval I improved my time by getting better acquainted with
the city. Emboldened by my body-guard, I slept for two nights in Henry's
room, and with one to watch outside the door, one lying on a mattress
just inside, and a new lock and bolt, I was free from disturbance.
Just as I had formed a wild idea of looking up Doddridge Knapp in his
home, I came to the office in the morning to find the door into Room 16
wide open and the farther door ajar.
“Come in, Wilton,” said the voice of the King of the Street; and I
entered his room to find him busied over his papers, as though nothing
had occurred since I had last met him.
“The market has had something of a vacation.” I ventured, as he failed
to speak.
“I have been out of town,” he said shortly. “What have you done?”
“Nothing.”
He gave a grunt of assent.
“You didn't expect me to be buying up the market, did you?” The
yellow-gray mustache went up, and the wolf-fangs gleamed from beneath.
“I reckon it wouldn't have been a very profitable speculation,” he
replied.
Then he leaned back in his chair and looked meditatively at the wall.
“It was for one fellow, though,” he continued, mellowing as he mused in
his recollections. “It was at the time of the Honest Injun deal--I guess
you don't remember that. It must have been ten years ago. Well, I had
a fellow named--why, what was his name?--oh, Riggs, or Rix, I forget
which,--and he was handling about a hundred thousand dollars for me. We
had Honest Injun run up from one dollar till it was over twenty dollars
a share. I had to go up to Nevada City, and left ten thousand shares
with him with orders to sell at twenty-five.”
“Yes,” I said, as the King of the Street paused and seemed inclined to
drop the story. “At twenty-five.”
“Well,” he continued at this encouragement, “when I came back, Honest
Injun was down to ten cents, or somewhere around there, which was just
about as I expected. Riggs comes up to me as proud as a spotted pup, and
tells me that he'd sold at thirty dollars, and cleared fifty thousand
more than I'd expected.”
“A pretty good deal,” I suggested.
“It happened that way, but it wouldn't happen so once in ten years. The
stock had gone up to thirty-one or thirty-two before it broke, and he
had sold just in time.”
“Did he get a reward?” I asked, as my employer appeared to wait for an
observation from me.
“He did,” said the Wolf with a growl. “I discharged him on the spot. And
hanged if I didn't tell him that the fifty thousand was his--and let
him have it, too. Oh, he was playing in great luck! That combination
wouldn't come twice in a thousand years. The next man who tried it went
to jail,” he added with a snap of the jaws.
“Quite correct,” I said. “Orders must be obeyed.”
“Just remember that,” he said significantly. “Have you heard anything
more of Decker?”
“I've heard enough to satisfy me that he's the man who got the Omega
stock.”
“What other deal is he in?” asked the King of the Street.
“I don't know.”
The King of the Street smiled indulgently.
“Well, you've got something to learn yet. I'll give you till next week
to find the answer to that question.”
I was convinced from his air that he had information on both these
points himself, and was merely trying my knowledge.
“I'll not be back before next Wednesday,” he concluded.
“Going away again?” I asked in surprise.
“I'm off to Virginia City,” he replied after considering for a little.
“I'm not sure about Omega, after all--and there's another one I want to
look into. You needn't mention my going. When I come back we'll have a
campaign that will raise the roof of every Board in town. No orders till
then unless I telegraph you. That's all.”
The King of the Street seemed straightforward enough in his statement
of plans, and it did not occur to me to distrust him while I was in his
presence. Yet, once more in my office, with the locked door between, I
began to doubt, and tried to find some hidden meaning in each word and
look. What plan was he revolving in that fertile brain? I could not
guess. The mystery of the great speculator was beyond my power to
fathom. And we worked, each in ignorance of the other's purposes, and
went the appointed road.