I DO SOME INVESTIGATING
Half an hour later I was on my way to Philadelphia, not New York;
not to "face the music," but to begin investigations concerning this
mysterious organization styling itself the Black Company. I wasn't
trying to put off facing the music, nor had I any intention of shirking
it; the tune itself meant nothing to me, but the death of that poor
woman and child weighed heavily on my soul. I was a murderer--a double
murderer--and I had flattered myself on getting off so easily! I had
killed an innocent woman and child. It was no use pleading I had not
done so intentionally, that I had no remembrance of it, that I wasn't
responsible for my actions. I _was_ responsible. I was a man grown, and
my own master. No one had asked me to get drunk that night, much less
compelled me. I had elected to do so, and I must take the consequences.
I saw myself as Miss Gelette must see me, at best a drunken fool with
no respect for human life; at worst a callous coward to boot. It was
not a lovely picture, and yet some good can come from the worst evil,
and in truth our dead selves may be stepping-stones to higher things,
for this horrible news I had heard heralded my final conquest of the
Demon. I was effectually sobered for all time, as well I might be.
Henceforth, I could never look into the flowing bowl without seeing
mirrored therein a murdered woman and child.
No, I was not running away from merited punishment. Indeed, the
worst punishment I could suffer was what I took with me and could
not escape--memory and conscience. Three weeks had passed since
that terrible night, and a few days more or less would make little
difference to waiting justice, while it might mean everything as
regards my solving the riddle of the Black Company. Once I made my
identity known in New York I could say good-by to personal freedom;
even though I were allowed out on bail, my movements would be severely
restricted, and it might well be that I should receive a stiff jail
sentence. Accidents from joy riding had been alarmingly frequent and
the courts had threatened to make a summary example; well, they could
find no more fitting example than myself and, as Frean had said, all my
money couldn't save me. I was just the type that the courts were after.
And so, while I still had the opportunity, I determined to learn
something of the Black Company at firsthand, the only satisfactory way.
For who would believe that such an organization existed, that it wasn't
the figment of an alcoholic imagination? Let Frean, when I didn't turn
up, set the police after me; let it be thought I was still trying to
hide. I didn't care; the public's opinion of me could hardly be worse
than it was. In all likelihood this man, Augustus Fremstad, was the
Black King and through him I could learn much. Joyce had come straight
from him, and it might be taken for granted that the "accident" which
induced Mr. Fremstad to give up motoring was purely imaginary and
designed simply as an excuse to pass Joyce on to Varney.
Augustus Fremstad; obviously a German or hyphenated American. Was he a
secret agent of the Central Powers and was I about to unearth a plot
of the kind that was coming to light day after day? A plot to cripple
the help that America was giving the Allies, or frustrate her coming
participation in the war which most of us saw to be inevitable?
In view of what was happening all over the country, this seemed the
most logical answer. And yet where did Theodore Varney fit in? His
personality had impressed itself strongly on me. I liked and admired
the old tyrant, and I could not believe he had the remotest connection
with such a conspiracy. How often and eloquently, during our nightly
games of chess, had he spoken of the tragedy of Belgium and how, for
reasons of self-preservation, if none other, we should be in the field
with France.
Reason and inclination approved the theory that, rather than being
associated with this secret society, he was a prospective victim. But
in what way? He was not even a wealthy man, as wealth goes--or so I had
been given to understand; he had never mixed in politics, never figured
prominently in anything but unobtrusive good works. And yet what did I
actually know about him? No more than the servants and Miss Gelette had
told me. Sea Bright wasn't his home; he had no background there, and my
opinion was based simply on hearsay and the little I had seen of him.
Could it be possible, as I had thought initially, that there was a
reverse side to the touching picture of the heroic and kind-hearted old
invalid? Had he really Addison's disease or, for reasons of his own,
faked the symptoms? Had that cryptic message "Varney moves on second"
emanated from him, a message, say, to the Black King, dropped by Frean
or even Joyce? It behooves me to take nothing for granted, to not let
favorable prejudice blind me to possibilities. I must investigate
Theodore Varney, look into his past in his home town. And I must visit
the Charity Hospital and prove what I suspected--that Joyce never had
been there.
I reached Philadelphia by what an Irishman I know would call a
"circuitous" route, for though I believed I had fooled Joyce
completely, I was taking no chances. Frean, of course, had no idea I
knew anything about the Black Company, and even Corby, when he learned
my true identity, would believe with Joyce that I had been merely
trying to dodge the double charge of manslaughter and thus had every
reason to assume the rôle I had. At the same time, just in case Joyce
had some suspicions and communicated them to Frean or Corby, I made
every pretense of leaving for New York, then doubled back at Red Bank
and so went on to Camden. I was careful to see if I were followed,
laying several clever traps, but there was no sign of Corby, Frean or
Joyce.
It was evening when I reached the Quaker City with which I am fairly
familiar; indeed, I know it better than most New Yorkers, for there
was a time when it was my temporary home. That was some ten years ago
when I was working my way through college and, in summer, held down
a job with Cable & Co., the big engineering firm, whose head offices
are in New York. It wasn't much of a post, but it helped me to pay my
way, was obligingly waiting for me when the college year closed, and it
led ultimately, on my graduation, to a good position in the New York
office. Those were the days when I had ambition and a lean purse, the
best companions for a hard road. Truly the real test comes with riches,
not poverty.
My plans, such as they were, were simple; I would secure a humble
lodging and pose as a chauffeur looking for work. I had almost
seventy-five dollars with me, my wages from Varney--I meant to return
the money in due course--and this was enough to see me through; for, of
course, though my check was good for hundreds of thousands I daren't
raise a penny on my true name. I should take the name of Smith, John
Smith of Boston. Frean had not recognized me when I wore the smoked
glasses but, in my present rôle, these would be too conspicuous,
attracting the notice I wished to avoid, and a pair of ordinary ones
would serve better. It was highly improbable that I should meet any one
who knew me; it was years since I'd been in the town for any length of
time, and at that period my acquaintances were in a far different class
than my present ones. Howard Roupell, I believed, hailed originally
from Philadelphia, and, of course, there were others, but I should
steer clear of their luxurious haunts.
Having bought a pair of genuine brass-rimmed spectacles from a quack
oculist who assured me I had astigmatism, and who charged me only five
dollars because I reminded him of a long lost brother, I went straight
to the hospital in question.
"I'm looking for an old pal of mine, Henry Joyce," I explained to
an official behind a railed partition in the entrance hall. "He's a
chauffeur, like me, and I heard tell when I was in Boston----"
"Joyce, you say?"
"Yes, sir. I heard he'd been in a smash-up and brought here. Smith's my
name. I come on here----"
"Your friend has left."
"What!" The fact that the man actually had been there was so
unexpected, so contrary to my theory, that I could only gape.
"He was discharged yesterday," said the official, still consulting a
large book. "It wasn't a motor accident but assault." And he turned me
over to a white-capped nurse who appeared, saying she could give me a
history of the case.
Well, this nurse--I think she was in charge of the accident ward--very
obligingly proceeded to tell me exactly what I had heard from Joyce
himself; it was entire corroboration of his story, down to the hour and
night of his admission to the hospital. The ambulance had brought him
in, suffering from what was thought at first to be a compound fracture
of the skull; he had been sandbagged and robbed out Moyamensing way in
a lonely street.
"I believe he has gone to New Jersey--I forget the place," concluded
the nurse. "He said he had a new situation there. But, no doubt, you
know the address."
"Well, I can't say I really know much about him, ma'am," I confessed,
feeling that, for an old pal, I was displaying rather surprising
ignorance. "You know how it is when you get out of touch with a
fellow, ma'am, him and me working in different cities. I just heard in
a roundabout way, through another friend, of him being laid up here,
and I took it for granted it was a smash-up, that being in our line.
Did the police get the fellow who banged him up?"
"Not to my knowledge. I understand that on that same night a prisoner
escaped from Moyamensing and that the police think he may have been
responsible, but I've heard nothing further."
So that was that, and I left the hospital feeling something of a fool.
This feeling increased by leaps and bounds during the next two days, at
the end of which period I was ready to believe that Corby had really
been having a joke with me, that the Black Company had no existence but
in his fertile imagination. Perhaps it was the sort of thing produced
by buttermilk, for not only did I find Theodore Varney's character
to be above reproach, agreeing with all I had heard of it, but also
that of Augustus Fremstad. Thus another of my theories went west in no
uncertain fashion. Rather than Mr. Fremstad proving to be a German or
hyphenated American, he came of an old Dutch family who had been in
Philadelphia since the time of Penn, a man of the most blameless and
upright character it was possible to conceive. Moreover, he _had_ given
up motoring through an accident in which both he and Joyce had had a
very narrow escape, the brakes of their car suddenly failing to act.
I need not weary you with the details of how I conducted my
investigation, but that I was able to do so thoroughly and quickly
was due in no small measure to a man whom I had known by sight--as
did most people in Philadelphia--when I worked with Cable & Co. This
man was "Big Tim" Scallon, in those days a political czar of sorts
and, if report went for anything, no better than the general type. In
appearance he resembled Nast's worst caricature of "Boss" Tweed, a big
bruiser of a man with the inevitable cigar and diamonds. But I had a
certain admiration for him in those days. They were corrupt days in
Philly--they may be so yet, for all I know--and I thought Scallon got
blamed for things he never did, for the faults of the "system" rather
than individual ones.
At all events he faded from the public eye, how or when I didn't know;
for I'm not much on politics and have all I can do to understand
something of the New York game without going elsewhere. At any rate
I'd heard nothing of Scallon for years, and had forgotten all about
him until, toward evening of the second day of my visit, I saw him in
Market Street, as large as life and seemingly as prosperous as ever.
I don't know how they manage it, but I've never yet seen an eclipsed
politician who didn't manage to look like real money, even if he'd
reached the bottom of the old sock at home.
Now this investigation business isn't so easy as it sounds; I used to
think that these private agencies were the softest way of making money,
but they're not--not if they're on the level like, say, the famous
Blunt Agency. It sounds easy in books but it isn't, and I didn't take
long to find that out. You have to wade through tons of chaff before
reaching any wheat.
To begin with, I had to disentangle the Augustus Fremstad I wanted from
half a dozen others before starting to get a line on him. I was pretty
well fed up with the job, and when I spied Tim Scallon, I realized he
could do more for me in five minutes than I could for myself in five
days. I knew that his career had been as varied as a bottle of the
fifty-seven varieties, that he had been born and bred in Philly and
knew everybody in town, high and low, like the palm of his own hand.
And he would part with his information on very little provocation, that
being part of his stock in trade, you might say. Of course, he didn't
know me, and I wouldn't proclaim my true identity, but the very fact
of his owning such a huge and mottled acquaintance made imposition
all the easier. He would even pretend to remember having met me if I
insisted on the point. It was his job to remember all the voters and
their progeny, the name of the first-born and what grandma died of,
interesting and memorable stuff like that.
So I stepped out as his huge waddling figure heaved abreast of me and
introduced myself as the friend of one Harrigan, whom I knew definitely
as a former crony of his who had settled in New York some ten years
ago. He shifted his cigar to port and received me with the genial smile
I had always liked; a good-hearted fellow for all his unlovely looks.
But his eyes were shrewd and cautious as he added, "Well, Mr. Smith,
what can I do for you?"
I told him nothing much; merely that I was employed in a private
investigation bureau in New York, that a client wanted inside dope on
Theodore Varney and Augustus Fremstad, and that Harrigan had advised me
to see him, Scallon.
"It's fortunate we met," I said, "for I was going to look you up. I've
got a letter of introduction to you." And I began an imaginary search
of my pocket. "It's here somewhere; I hope I haven't misplaced it----"
Scallon interrupted, acting precisely as I had judged he would. "That's
all right," he said, waving a pulpy hand. "Never mind. Sure, I know
Fremstad and Varney, though we never were what you might call bosoms.
They're out of the top drawer, y'know--swell folk, not in my alley at
all. Anybody could tell you about 'em, and you're welcome to what I
know, which is plenty. If this client of your firm is figgerin' on
diggin' up something nasty about 'em, he's wasting his money and your
time, see? Why, there ain't a more harmless coupla old cooties in
Philly! I bet they was born with a crown an' harp."
Thus Scallon corroborated not only what I had already learned by my own
endeavors, but told me a good deal more, even affirming that it was
generally known old Varney had some disease that made him "yeller as a
yeller dorg" and, because of that, was living the life of a recluse.
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he had ever heard of
such an organization as the Black Company, but I refrained. Not that
I didn't trust Scallon, for the man confirmed, on this meeting, the
opinion I had always held of him. Gross, no doubt, but honest according
to his lights; kind-hearted to a fault, and loyal to his friends and
the friends of friends; above petty malice or spite. A lot of good in
these old-time, two-fisted politicians, let people talk as they may.
They had their virtues. It went against the grain to impose on him even
in so small a matter. Nor did I doubt his local knowledge. If such a
society existed, he, of all men, would have heard some rumor of it. No,
it wasn't that; it was simply that, standing there in Market Street
talking with so sane and normal a being as Big Tim, and mindful also of
the past days' failures, the whole matter of the Black Company seemed
an absurd fantasy. Scallon would laugh at me; how he would laugh! And
perhaps, in any case it would be just as well if I said nothing. He
would pass it on as a joke to some one, and if there _should_ happen to
be any truth in it----
But was there? What had I to go on? Nothing more than what Corby had
told me, a man who might be half insane or who had a sense of humor
even more eccentric than my own. Those two messages in the ingenious
chess code might have come from Corby himself as part and parcel of the
joke. Out of what flimsy material had I constructed this melodramatic
play of the Black Company!
"A play that refuses to play. A play in which nobody acts but
myself--and I'm the clown," I thought as, saying farewell to Scallon,
I walked through the darkening streets to my humble lodgings near the
river. "I'd better be getting back to New York; I'm only wasting my
time here. There's nothing in it, and anyway, what business is it of
mine? No, I've nothing to do----"
But I had, right at that place and moment. Indeed there was rather too
much to do; for there were three of them, waiting for me obligingly
in the dark alley near my lodgings. I walked right into the trap and
never even saw the blow that was meant to finish me. That I dodged it
was due to no skill on my part, nothing but an accident. I tripped and
stumbled over something at the right moment. The next, all four of us
were inextricably involved. That sort of thing suits me, being built,
as I am, something like a steam roller. I am no Carpentier, a thing of
agility and grace, and my every movement is distinctly not a picture.
The confined space also suited me; it's difficult to dodge a steam
roller in an alley. The darkness suited me, too; I had three people
to hit, my opponents only one; they had considerably more margin for
mistakes, and they made them. Even so, I might not have survived, had
it not been for an inquisitive policeman who promulgated himself into
the proceedings; with unerring intelligence he centered his attentions
on me so that, by the time explanations were in order, my adversaries
were probably as far as Chestnut Street.
"Well, we've had a nice little go, officer, and no hard feelings," I
said. "But those other birds started the show. Yes, maybe it is what
they all say, but that doesn't make it less the truth. Yes, perhaps I
was doing all the fighting; I had to. All right, I'll go home; I'm not
looking for more. Too much is enough."
Alone in my room I found a rip in my coat where a knife had missed the
jugular, discovered a gash on my left forearm, and located several
bumps on my head that had not been there when last inspected by the
phrenologist. He would have called them, no doubt, bumps of folly and
stupidity.
Thinking it all over, I decided anew that it was indeed time I returned
to New York. After all, there is no place like home, and certainly jail
is preferable to a coffin.