I CONSULT LISPING JIMMIE
The following morning found me in the offices of the Blunt Detective
Agency. James Blunt, popularly known the length and breadth of the land
as "Lisping Jimmie," represented the best criminal-investigation talent
in the market, and I knew that I would need the best. At heart I didn't
believe that Ashton would be able to learn any more than I had. Blunt,
however, would.
It was the first time I had met him, though I had followed his record,
like every one else, since he first leaped into fame as a headquarters
"bull" in the old Mulberry Street days. Since then he had further
gilded his name, and incidentally his pocket, in a dozen famous cases,
and the reputation of the private agency he had established was so high
that its services were even enlisted for difficult government jobs.
Naturally, such talent did not stoop to picayune cases, nor were its
fees picayune, either; James Blunt was the foremost specialist in moral
diseases of society, and entitled to a specialist's prices, yet he
wasn't mercenary.
Many stories have been woven round his remarkable personality--among
others, that his name was assumed, and that he had left Yale under
romantic circumstances--but what undoubtedly endeared him to the man in
the street was the fact that his humanity was as big as his intellect,
that love for his profession took precedence over all else, and that
he had handled many a case for nothing. If you were in a hole without
a red cent, and your wail reached the quick ears of Lisping Jimmie, he
would pull you out for nothing. Another fact was--and undoubtedly this
was responsible for his great and continued success--he took a hand
personally in every case, and worked as hard as any of his operatives.
Even now, when his reputation and fortune were made, he didn't content
himself with lying back in a chair and throwing orders at subordinates.
I knew then that the difficult business of the Black Company would be
cleaned up as quickly as possible, and that if he couldn't do it, none
could.
"Before I begin, Mr. Blunt," I said, after introducing myself, "I want
you to believe that, no matter what you may have heard about me, what
I'm about to relate can't be charged to the account of John Barleycorn.
In the vernacular, however bizarre or fantastic it may seem, it's not
the dream of a booze fighter. If we start with that understanding,
we'll get on much better."
He removed his nose glasses--I had heard they didn't magnify, and that
his vision was really hawklike--and rubbed them with a pale heliotrope
silk handkerchief that matched his scarf and socks. I had already
verified the story that his dress was fastidious and exquisite. For
the rest there was nothing of the traditional sleuth about him. He
looked just the sort of average, clean-cut, successful young business
man you see everywhere. His eyes were remarkably far apart, and with
the pronounced lumps over them which are supposed to denote the
calculating faculty, while in his manner there was a hint of languor
and affectation which I knew to be characteristic.
"Mr. Lawton," he replied, with a faint, pleasing smile, and the
peculiar lisp that had earned him his nickname, and which I needn't
attempt to reproduce, "you can't say anything in the bizarre line
too strong for me. After fifteen years' experience I've come to the
conclusion, like some investigators in other lines, that in this world
nothing is impossible. As for the rest, whatever popular legend may say
of your thirst, I should give it as my opinion, if appearance goes for
anything, that you haven't overindulged it for at least three weeks."
"That's quite true," I said. "Of course, you've seen the morning
papers, so I needn't explain where I've been for those three weeks. But
there's another news item to which I wish to draw your attention--that
of the unknown man who was nearly killed last evening by a subway
express."
"Yes, I saw it. Supposed to be a would-be suicide who repented
providentially at the last moment, or the victim of an accident. So you
were that man, and it was a deliberate play for your life? Oh, yes,
it's an old dodge, but safe if pulled off right."
It was a comfort to meet an intellect that marched ahead instead of
trailing behind; that made its own swift, unerring deductions, instead
of asking a lot of long-winded questions; that could believe without
having chapter, verse, and argument.
"Have you ever heard," I said, "of an organization calling itself
the Black Company? A body of presumably sane men, representing such
a fantastic idea as the black chessmen, who are known to one another
as bishops, pawns, and so forth, and who even correspond by means of
a secret code compiled from imaginary chess games? There's something
bizarre for you, Mr. Blunt. And yet it was a member of such an
organization that made the play for my life last night. Don't ask me
how I know. I haven't a shred of evidence, yet I'm absolutely sure of
it."
At first mention of the secret society, I noticed that the rather
sleepy look departed from Mr. Blunt's eyes. "Dear me," he said mildly,
"this promises to be a bit interesting. I'm something of a chess crank
myself."
He pushed a button under his desk, and to a long-nosed man who entered
said briskly: "The evidence in the Joe Turner and Andy Quigg cases,
Fleming. Oh, yes, and the Isaac Goldmann affair."
Fleming disappeared, reappeared, and disappeared again like a phantom,
the only evidence of his movements being a loose-leaf volume which he
left at his employer's elbow.
"Now for your story, Mr. Lawton," said Blunt, and I opened up and
told everything. I related every little incident from the time I left
Princeton on that crazy ride, to the moment of my entering Blunt's
office. I made a secret of nothing, for I even related what Hannay had
told me about my father and Mr. Varney.
If I am ordered to build a bridge or construct a dam, I don't expect
some of the blue prints to be held out on me, and that was the way
I felt about this. I was engaging a master workman, and if I wanted
results, it was up to me to see he had all the specifications. I think
I told the whole thing in as few words as possible, for he never asked
a question, merely taking several notes in shorthand as I went along.
"Now, that's absolutely all of it," I finished, "and here's the note
I got from Corby and the two code messages. I won't be springing some
all-important fact on you at the eleventh hour, and I don't think for
a minute I can teach you your business any more than you can teach me
mine. I'm not here to obstruct, but to help, if I can, and I'll take
orders, not give them. Finally, I'm not out for revenge on anybody,
even Frean, and if the whole thing can be kept quiet, so much the
better. If there's a criminal gang after Varney I want it squelched,
that's all, and I don't care what money or personal effort I spend in
doing it."
"Mr. Lawton," he said dryly, "any time you think of giving up the
engineering profession and want another job, come to me. I don't
distribute compliments idly, but I say that of the many people who have
tried at various times to teach me my business, you certainly would be
the most qualified. As a client, your brevity, clearness, candor, and
grasp of essential detail have been a refreshing surprise, while your
whole conduct of this case has been very creditable indeed. Your only
mistake was in saying anything to Mr. Scallon and this friend of yours."
"I couldn't get out of telling Ashton; he saw that affair in the
subway. He is to be trusted absolutely. I've known him since prep
school days, and can answer for his character and ability. He's as
sharp, close, and true as a wolf trap."
"Well, that's something, and I'm inclined to believe you're a pretty
good judge of character."
"As for Scallon, I wasn't taking any chances and so I didn't say
a word about the Black Company. I was afraid he might pass it on
unwittingly."
"Yes, but, of course, you see the whole point is this: that though
you didn't say anything about the Black Company, you did ask a lot of
questions about Mr. Varney. You may have been overheard, and they could
put two and two together, especially if they knew you'd been to the
hospital asking about Joyce. Up to that point I believe you may have
succeeded in disarming suspicion to a great extent; they didn't know
if you were really harmless or dangerous. Once they were sure that you
were dangerous, they tried to short circuit you before you could use
your money and information against them, and they'll keep on trying for
revenge if nothing else."
"Yes, I suppose they will. Then you really know something about this
secret society?"
"It has been suspected for some time that such an organization existed,
but up to the present our only grounds for suspicion lay in these
three cases," picking up the loose-leaf volume from his desk. "And
by 'we' I mean not only this agency, but the police departments of
New York, Philadelphia, and Boston. All three cases happened in these
three cities, and within the past two years. The first was that of
a young medical student called Turner; shot and killed one night in
Broad Street, Philadelphia. Assailant unknown. Last conscious words
were: 'The Black Company.' Here, then, is the first and last mention we
have of that name. The second case happens six months later in Beacon
Street, Boston, and at night also. A saloon keeper named Andy Quigg
is stabbed through the lungs, and expires in the arms of a policeman,
murmuring 'The King's Rook's Pawn.' The third and last case happens
here one night last winter, on Fourth Avenue. Jewish rabbi, name of
Isaac Goldmann, garroted on returning home from the synagogue. Found
on him was a typewritten chess game in the algebraic notation, and a
half-defaced phrase running: 'This is the secret code of----' Some
policeman very obligingly destroyed this paper as unimportant before I
had a chance to see it."
Mr. Blunt replaced the book on the desk and went on: "Now, here we have
three victims in three different walks of life, in three cities, and of
widely different ages--a young medical student, a middle-aged saloon
keeper, and an old rabbi. In no case was robbery the motive, nor would
the personal histories of these three men seem to suggest their being
mixed up with criminals in any way. Of the three, certainly not Rabbi
Goldmann, who was something of an idol among his people on the East
Side. Turner belonged to a rich family, while Quigg was prosperous and
respectable. Nothing was ever discovered by the police that would throw
any light on these three murders.
"You understand," he finished, "that those three were distinctively
police cases, and that this is the first time I've had a case dealing
with the Black Company. I may say that the police have little if any
belief that such an organization exists, and, lacking all evidence, in
face of six months' silence, I was beginning to think I had attached,
privately, too much significance to those three cases, when you now
walk in and confirm all my suspicions."
"You agree with me, then, that it's a criminal organization, not
politico-social or connected in any way with this Prussian propaganda,
but simply out for profit?"
"In the main, yes. But I know no more about it than you. They may
employ everything, from blackmail to burglary--though not of the crude
variety. It is clear that they are rich, powerful, clever, and utterly
unscrupulous. We know of these three murders. But how many more have
occurred--the sort of 'accident' that happened to you last night? They
are not a band of ordinary thugs. And so," he added gravely, "you're a
marked man, Mr. Lawton. You've kicked up an invaluable find at great
peril to yourself. You have discovered and solved their secret code,
and you know three of their members. They haven't prevented you from
delivering that information, but I warn you they will try to take it
out of your hide. I'll get you a permit to pack a gun, and detail a man
to shadow you. You won't like it, I know, but lack of precaution or
foolhardiness is only playing the other fellow's game.
"Now," he continued, "you might have saved yourself that trip to the
hospital for it was a foregone conclusion that Joyce wouldn't tell a
story that could be so easily disproved. That fellow at Varney's is the
real Joyce, and his stay in the hospital accounts for you being able
to take his place for so long. He was out of his head for a week, and
therefore couldn't notify his superiors what had happened, and they
naturally thought he was on the job. As soon as he was able, he put
them wise, and so for at least a week they knew you were an impostor.
That explains why you got no more code messages, and why Corby told
you nothing further. I don't pretend to understand the fact of Joyce
and you being robbed by the same party; it may be no more than a
coincidence, or it may mean the entrance of a complicating factor--some
enemy of the secret society, though that doesn't explain his attack
on you. We must follow that line, try to discover the man's identity.
Unfortunately the remains are useless for that purpose. In general
appearance, of course, he resembled you, but can you add some definite
detail?"
"Yes. I noticed a striking deformity. As he pointed out the imaginary
lights of New York with his left hand--he had the crank in his right
ready to wallop me--I saw that it had six fingers, or, more correctly,
five and a thumb. Now, I also saw that night more than one moon in the
sky, yet I'm sure about this extra finger; it was rudimentary and as
if stuck on to the little one. That hand must have been cut to pieces
in the accident, or it would have proved that the victim wasn't Peter
Lawton."
"Yes, he was so badly mangled that we'll never be able to prove that
extra finger. All the same, and despite your confession as to the
abnormal number of moons, this is a valuable item. Now," switching the
conversation suddenly to another subject, "what do you know about this
friend of yours, Howard Roupell? Why was he at the station?"
"He told me he had come to meet a friend who hadn't turned up." I then
added that Roupell was no more than an acquaintance, one of the many I
had made six months ago. "I really know very little about him except
that he's a retired broker and man about town. One of the kind you may
meet for years and never know any better. He's a member of one of my
clubs, and goes in a bit for first nights, the bottle, and bridge. Of
course he can't have anything to do with this business; a genial old
Falstaff, if a bit of a bore, and about the last person you'd think of
being mixed up with murder and sudden death."
"You never can tell," said Mr. Blunt, with his faint, pleasing smile.
"Superfluous flesh is a great asset to malefactors. If you want to be
a really successful crook, you must first feed up, for no jury likes
to convict a fat man. They can't believe he's really so bad as he's
painted. Of course, Mr. Roupell didn't shove you in front of that
train, but he may have deputed a pawn to do so. I've an idea that in
this agreeable organization the pawns do all the actual dirty work,
until, as in the game of chess, they reach the eighth file and are
promoted; then they become a capital piece, with a pawn of their own
to direct. Perhaps they are advanced a square according to a certain
number of successful enterprises. Who knows? Meanwhile we'll take a
run down to Center Street and see if you can recognize anybody in the
gallery. It's better than my private collection."
Although, for the sake of clearness, I have given our dialogue in
sequence, it was really broken up into brief lisping sentences, and had
frequent interruptions. Lisping Jimmie wasn't given to rounded periods,
and, moreover, had a trick of leaving phrases unfinished. You had to
march ahead with him, grasp the conclusion which he considered obvious,
or be left in a hopeless muddle; and while he talked he worked. The
long-nosed phantom, Fleming, was out and in the room constantly, taking
the briefest but clearest orders. When we left to visit the rogues'
gallery, trailed by a couple of operatives to see if any one followed
us, the efficient machinery of the famous agency had been set in motion
against the enemy.
It did not need Blunt's reminder to convince me that the task set
us was no easy one, and might consume months. The securing of the
necessary evidence against such an astute and cunning organization
as this had shown itself to be would require infinite patience and
caution, as well as enterprise. Obviously, it wasn't a simple matter
of arresting Joyce, Corby, and Frean out of hand; even if we had the
authority, based on the proper evidence, that would be only scotching
the tail of the venomous reptile.
"What we want are the men higher up," said Blunt. "Of course, they're
warned now. It's an even chance that they know of your visit to me. In
that case they may abandon whatever game they're up to with Mr. Varney."
"Do you know anything of this peculiar disease of his?" I asked. "I
mean, could the symptoms of Bronze Skin be produced by artificial
means, say some chemical?"
"I don't think so, but that's one of the things we'll have to find out.
We must follow every line."
Naturally I didn't like the idea of Mr. Varney's past being probed,
but there was no help for it. The greatest puzzle was why Joyce should
have been installed in the house, what connection there was between
Varney and the Black Company. I was convinced it was a wholly innocent
one on his part, that he was a prospective victim, but Blunt was taking
nothing for granted. He meant to investigate everything and everybody.
"Your theory that they're attempting his life by some subtle poison
which gives the symptoms of Addison's disease is ingenious," he
said. "He first developed it in Philadelphia, you say, the reputed
headquarters of the society. And it would explain Joyce's presence if
the poison had to be constantly administered. Yes, it's ingenious, but
not sound, for it doesn't explain Frean's or Corby's part. No, we have
yet to find the key move to this problem."
"In that code message what does it mean by 'Varney moves on second?'
Has it a hidden meaning, or are we to take it literally? It may mean
any square from king's rook's to queen's rook's second--any one of
eight squares. Is something to happen on that particular square? I've
racked my brains but I can't get any meaning out of it."
"It may mean a date."
"But Varney isn't going to move anywhere on the second; he's booked
there for the summer. Anyway, that's one thing they don't know--that I
found that message."
"I wouldn't be too sure of that," said Blunt. "It's hard to say what
they know or don't know. They seem to have an excellent spy system. How
long is your friend, Mr. Ashton, staying in Philadelphia?"
"Two or three days."
"Oh!" said Lisping Jimmie, and I caught a rather queer look in his
eyes, which I was to remember later.
Our visit to the gallery was a distinct failure. I scrutinized profiles
and full faces of every conceivable type, until I was almost dizzy, but
in no case could I identify one as that of Joyce or Corby. Curiously
enough, the only photo that stirred my memory had nothing to do with
that worthy couple. "See here," I said, pointing it out. "If this
fellow had a mustache, he'd look like the one that stole my car. At
least, he reminds me of him. He had a hook nose and bushy brows like
that."
"I'm not familiar with his map," said Blunt. "H'm, Charlie Banks, doing
time for grand larceny, eh? I'll have to look Charlie up."
"By George!" I exclaimed. "Supposing it was a false mustache? Look
here, I haven't told you about that; I thought, of course, I'd only
imagined the thing. I thought it was impossible, like all those moons
I saw. But, apart from those moons, I seem to have observed things
pretty accurately that night. Now when I found this fellow cranking my
car----" And I explained about the wonderful automatic mustache that
was capable of intelligent self-movement.
As I finished, an official came in--I learned afterward that he was
head of the detective bureau--and nodded familiarly to my companion.
"Heard there's been a murder over in Philly," he said at length
laconically. "New Yorker by the name of Ashton. Beats hell how business
keeps up."