with the revulsion of relief upon her, her hands pressed hard against
her temples, staring unseeingly about the garret. He was gone. He filled
her with terror. Every instinct she possessed, every fiber of her being
revolted against him. He was gone. Yes, he was gone--for the time being.
But--but what was the end of all this to be?
She shook her head after a moment, shook it helplessly and wearily, as,
finally, she walked over to the washstand, took the piece of paper from
the bodice of her dress, and spread it out under the candle light. A
glance showed her that it was in cipher. There was the stub of a pencil,
she remembered, in the washstand drawer, and, armed with this, and a
piece of wrapping paper that had once enveloped one of Gypsy Nan's gin
bottles, she took up the candle, crossed the garret, and sat down on the
edge of the cot, placing the candle on the chair in front of her.
If the last three days had been productive of nothing else, they had at
least furnished her with the opportunity of studying the notebook she
had found in the secret hiding place, and of making herself conversant
with the gang's cipher; and she now set to work upon it. It was a
numerical cipher. Each letter of the alphabet in regular rotation was
represented by its corresponding numeral; a zero was employed to set off
one letter from another, and the addition of the numerals between the
zeros indicated the number of the letter involved. Also, there being but
twenty-six letters in the alphabet, it was obvious that the addition of
three nines, which was twenty-seven, could not represent any letter,
and the combination of 999 was therefore used to precede any of the
arbitrary groups of numerals which were employed to express phrases and
sentences, such as the 739 that she had found scrawled on the piece of
paper around her key on the first night she had come here, and which,
had it been embodied in a message and not preceded by the 999, would
have meant simply the addition of seven, three and nine, that is,
nineteen--and therefore would indicate the nineteenth letter of the
alphabet, S.
Rhoda Gray copied the first line of the message on the piece of wrapping
paper:
321010333203202306663103330111102210444202101112052110761
Adding the numerals between the zeros, and giving to each its
corresponding letter, she set down the result:
6010110505022090405014030509014
f a k e e v i d e n c e i n
It was then but a matter of grouping the letters into words; and,
decoded, the first line read:
Fake evidence in......
She worked steadily on. It was a lengthy message, and it took her a long
time. It was an hour, perhaps more, after Danglar had gone, before she
had completed her task; and then, after that, she sat for still a long
time staring, not at the paper on the chair before her, but at the
flickering shadows thrown by the candle on the opposite wall.
Queer and strange were the undercurrents and the cross-sections of
life that were to be found, amazingly contradictory, amazingly
incomprehensible, once one scratched beneath the surface of the poverty
and the squalor, and, yes, the crime, amongst the hiving thousands of
New York's East Side! In the days--not so very long ago--when, as
the White Moll, she had worked amongst these classes, she had on one
occasion, when he was sick, even kept old Viner in food. She had not, at
the time, failed to realize that the man was grasping, rapacious, even
unthankful, but she had little dreamed that he was a miser worth fifty
thousand dollars!
Her mind swerved off suddenly at a tangent. The tentacles of this crime
octopus, of which Danglar seemed to be the head, reached far and into
most curious places to fasten and hold and feed on the progeny of human
foibles! She could not help wondering where the lair was from which
emanated the efficiency and system that, as witness this code message
to-night, kept its members, perhaps widely scattered, fully informed of
its every movement.
She shook her head. That was something she had not yet learned; but it
was something she must learn if ever she hoped to obtain the evidence
that would clear her of the crime that circumstances had fastened upon
her. And yet she had made no move in that direction, because--well,
because, so far, it had seemed all she could do to protect and safeguard
herself in her present miserable existence and surroundings, which,
abhorrent as they were, alone stood between her and a prison cell.
Her forehead gathered into little furrows; and, reverting to the code
message, her thoughts harked back to a well-known crime, the authorship
of which still remained a mystery, and which had stirred the East Side
some two years ago. A man--in the vernacular of the underworld a “stage
hand”--by the name of Kroner, credited with having a large amount of
cash, the proceeds of some nefarious transaction, in his possession
on the night in question, was found murdered in his room in an old and
tumble-down tenement of unsavory reputation. The police net had gathered
in some of the co-tenants on suspicion; Nicky Viner, referred to in the
code message, amongst them. But nothing had come of the investigation.
There had been no charge of collusion between the suspects; but Perlmer,
a shyster lawyer, had acted for them all collectively, and, one and all,
they had been discharged. In what degree Perlmer's services had been of
actual value had never been ascertained, for the police, through lack
of evidence, had been obliged to drop the case; but the underworld had
whispered to itself. There was such a thing as suppressing evidence,
and Perlmer was known to have the cunning of a fox, and a code of morals
that never stood in the way, or restricted him in any manner.
The code message threw a new light on all this. Perlmer must have known
that old Nicky Viner had money, for, according to the code message,
Perlmer prepared a fake set of affidavits and forged a chain of fake
evidence with which he had blackmailed Nicky Viner ever since; and Nicky
Viner, known as a dissolute, shady character, innocent enough of the
crime, but afraid because his possession of money if made public would
tell against him, and frightened because he had already been arrested
once on suspicion for that very crime, had whimpered--and paid. And
then, somehow, Danglar and the gang had discovered that the old, seedy,
stoop-shouldered, bearded, down-at-the-heels Nicky Viner was not all
that he seemed; that he was a miser, and had a hoard of fifty thousand
dollars--and Danglar and the gang had set out to find that hoard and
appropriate it. Only they had not succeeded. But in their search they
had stumbled upon Perlmer's trail, and that was the key to the plan they
had afoot to-night. If Perlmer's fake and manufactured affidavits were
clever enough and convincing enough to wring money out of Viner for
Perlmer, they were more than enough to enable Danglar, employed as
Danglar would employ them, to wring from Nicky Viner the secret of where
the old miser hid his wealth; for Viner would understand that Danglar
was not hampered by having to safeguard himself on account of having
been originally connected with the case in a legal capacity, or any
capacity, and therefore in demanding all or nothing, would have no cause
for hesitation, failing to get what he wanted, in turning the evidence
over to the police. In other words, where Perlmer had to play his man
cautiously and get what he could, Danglar could go the limit and get
all. As it stood, then, Danglar and the gang had not found out the
location of that hoard; but they had found out where Perlmer kept his
spurious papers--stuffed in at the back of the bottom drawer of his desk
in his office, practically forgotten, practically useless to Perlmer
any more, for, having once shown them to Viner, there was no occasion
to call them into service again unless Viner showed signs of getting
a little out of hand and it became necessary to apply the screws once
more.
For the rest, it was a very simple matter. Perlmer had an office in a
small building on lower Sixth Avenue, and it was his custom to go to
his office in the evenings and remain there until ten o'clock or so.
The plan then, according to the code message, was to loot Perlmer's
desk some time after the man had gone home for the night, and then, at
midnight, armed with the false documents, to beard old Nicky Viner in
his miserable quarters over on the East Side, and extort from the old
miser the neat little sum that Danglar estimated would amount to some
fifty thousand dollars in cash.
Rhoda Gray's face was troubled and serious. She found herself wishing
for a moment that she had never decoded the message. But she shook her
head in sharp self-protest the next instant. True, she would have evaded
the responsibility that the criminal knowledge now in her possession had
brought her; but she would have done so, in that case, deliberately at
the expense of her own self-respect. It would not have excused her
in her own soul to have sat staring at a cipher message that she was
satisfied was some criminal plot, and have refused to decode it simply
because she was afraid a sense of duty would involve her in an effort to
frustrate it. To have sat idly by under those circumstances would have
been as reprehensible--and even more cowardly--than it would be to sit
idly by now that she knew what was to take place. And on that latter
score to-night there was no argument with herself. She found herself
accepting the fact that she would act, and act promptly, as the only
natural corollary to the fact that she was in a position to do so.
Perhaps it was that way to-night, not only because she had on a previous
occasion already fought this principle of duty out with herself, but
because to-night, unlike that other night, the way and the means seemed
to present no insurmountable difficulties, and because she was now far
better prepared, and free from all the perplexing, though enormously
vital, little details that had on the former occasion reared themselves
up in mountainous aspect before her. The purchase of a heavy veil, for
instance, the day after the Hayden-Bond affair, would enable her now to
move about the city in the clothes of the White Moll practically at will
and without fear of detection. And, further, the facilities for making
that change, the change from Gypsy Nan to the White Moll, were now
already at hand--in the little old shed down the lane.
And as far as any actual danger that she might incur to-night was
concerned, it was not great. She was not interested in the fifty
thousand dollars in an intrinsic sense; she was interested only in
seeing that old Nicky Viner, unappealing, yes, and almost repulsive both
in personality and habits as the man was, was not blackmailed out of
it; that Danglar, yes, and hereafter, Perlmer too, should not prey
like vultures on the man, and rob him of what was rightfully his.
If, therefore, she secured those papers from Perlmer's desk, it
automatically put an end to Danglar's scheme to-night; and if, later,
she saw to it that those papers came into Viner's possession, that, too,
automatically ended Perlmer's persecutions. Indeed, there seemed little
likelihood of any danger or risk at all. It could not be quite ten o
clock yet; and it was not likely that whoever was delegated by Danglar
to rob Perlmer's office would go there much before eleven anyway, since
they would naturally allow for the possibility that Perlmer might stay
later in his office than usual, a contingency that doubtless accounted
for midnight being set as the hour at which they proposed to lay old
Nicky Viner by the heels. Therefore, it seemed almost a certainty
that she would reach there, not only first, but with ample time at her
disposal to secure the papers and get away again without interruption.
She might even, perhaps, reach the office before Perlmer himself had
left--it was still quite early enough for that--but in that case she
need only remain on watch until the lawyer had locked up and gone away.
Nor need even the fact that the office would be locked dismay her.
In the secret hiding-place here in the garret, among those many other
evidences of criminal activity, was the collection of skeleton keys,
and--she was moving swiftly around the attic now, physically as active
as her thoughts.
It was not like that other night. There were few preparations to make.
She had only to secure the keys and a flashlight, and to take with her
the damp cloth that would remove the grime streaks from her face, and
the box of composition that would enable her to replace them when she
came back--and five minutes later she was on the street, making her way
toward the lane, and, specifically, toward the deserted shed where she
had hidden away her own clothing.
IX. ROOM NUMBER ELEVEN
Another five minutes, and in her own personality now, a slim, trim
figure, neatly gloved, the heavy veil affording ample protection to her
features, Rhoda Gray emerged from the shed and the lane, and started
rapidly toward lower Sixth Avenue. And as she walked, her mind, released
for the moment from the consideration of her immediate venture, began
again, as it had so many times in the last three days, its striving
and its searching after some loophole of escape from her own desperate
situation. But only, as it ever did, confusion came--a chaos of things,
contributory things and circumstances, and the personalities of those
with whom this impossible existence had thrown her into contact. Little
by little she was becoming acquainted with the personnel of the gang--in
an impersonal way, mostly. Apart from Danglar, there was Shluker, who
must of necessity be one of them; and Skeeny, the man who had been with
Danglar in Shluker's room; and the Cricket, whom she had never seen; and
besides these, there were those who were mentioned in the cipher message
to-night, and detailed to the performance of the various acts and scenes
that were to lead up to the final climax--which, she supposed, was the
object and reason for the cipher message, in order that even those not
actually employed might be thoroughly conversant with the entire plan,
and ready to act intelligently if called upon. For there were others, of
course, as witness herself, or, rather, Gypsy Nan, whose personality she
had so unwillingly usurped.
It was vital, necessary, that she should know them all, and more than
in that impersonal way, if she counted upon ever freeing herself of the
guilt attributed to her. For she could see no other way but one--that
of exposing and proving the guilt of this vile clique who now surrounded
her, and who had actually instigated and planned the crime of which she
was accused. And it was not an easy task!
And then there were those outside this unholy circle who kept forcing
their existence upon her consciousness, because they, too, played an
intimate part in the sordid drama which revolved around her, and whose
end she could not foresee. There was, for instance--the Adventurer. She
drew in her breath quickly. She felt the color creep slowly upward, and
tinge her throat and cheeks--and then the little chin, strong and firm,
was lifted in a sort of self-defiant challenge. True, the man had been a
great deal in her thoughts, but that was only because her curiosity was
piqued, and because on two occasions now she had had very real cause for
gratitude to him. If it had not been for the Adventurer, she would even
now be behind prison bars. Why shouldn't she think of him? She was
not an ingrate! Why shouldn't she be interested? There was something
piquantly mysterious about the man--who called himself an adventurer.
She would even have given a good deal to know who he really was, and how
he, too, came to be so conversant with Danglar's plans as fast as they
were matured, and why, on those two particular occasions, he had not
only gone out of his way to be of service to her, but had done so at
very grave risk to himself. Of course, she was interested in him--in
that way. How could she help it? But in any other way--the little chin
was still tilted defiantly upward--even the suggestion was absurd. The
man might be chivalrous, courageous, yes, outwardly, even a gentleman in
both manner and appearance; he might be all those things, and, indeed,
was--but he was a thief, a professional thief and crook. It seemed
very strange, of course; but she was judging him, not alone from the
circumstances under which they had met and been together, but from what
he had given her to understand about himself.
The defiance went suddenly from her face; and, for a moment, her
lips quivered a little helplessly. It was all so very strange, and so
forbidding, and--and, perhaps she hadn't the stout heart that a man
would have--but she did not understand, and she could not see her way
through the darkness that was like a pall wrapped about her--and it was
hard just to grope out amidst surroundings that revolted her and made
her soul sick. It was hard to do this and--and still keep her courage
and her faith.
She shook her head presently as she went along, shook it reprovingly at
herself, and the little shoulders squared resolutely back. There must
be, and there would be, a way out of it all, and meanwhile her position,
bad as it was, was not without, at least, a certain compensation. There
had been the Sparrow the other night whom she had been able to save,
and to-night there was Nicky Viner. She could not be blind to that. Who
knew! It might be for just such very purposes that her life had been
turned into these new channels!
She looked around her sharply now. She had reached the lower section
of Sixth Avenue. Perlmer's office, according to the address given, was
still a little farther on. She walked briskly. It was very different
to-night, thanks to her veil! It had been horrible that other night,
when she had ventured out as the White Moll and had been forced to keep
to the dark alleyways and lanes, and the unfrequented streets!
And now, through a jeweler's window, she noted the time, and knew a
further sense of relief. It was even earlier than she had imagined. It
was not quite ten o'clock; she would, at least, be close on the heels of
Perlmer's departure from his office, if not actually ahead of time, and
therefore she would be first on the scene, and--yes, this was the place;
here was Perlmer's name amongst those on the name-plate at the street
entrance of a small three-story building.
She entered the hallway, and found it deserted. It was a rather dirty
and unkempt place, and very poorly lighted--a single incandescent alone
burned in the hall. Perlmer's room, so the name-plate indicated, was
Number Eleven, and on the next floor.
She mounted the stairs, and paused on the landing to look around her
again. Here, too, the hallway was lighted by but a single lamp; and
here, too, an air of desertion was in evidence. The office tenants, it
was fairly obvious, were not habitual night workers, for not a ray of
light came from any of the glass-paneled doors that flanked both sides
of the passage. She nodded her head sharply in satisfaction. It was
equally obvious that Perlmer had already gone. It would take her but a
moment, then, unless the skeleton keys gave her trouble. She had never
used a key of that sort, but--She moved quietly down the hallway, and,
looking quickly about her to assure herself again that she was not
observed, stopped before the door of Room Number Eleven.
A moment she hung there, listening; then she slipped the skeleton keys
from her pocket, and, in the act of inserting one of them tentatively
into the keyhole, she tried the door--and with a little gasp of surprise
returned the keys hurriedly to her pocket. The door was unlocked; it had
even opened an inch already under her hand.
Again she looked around her, a little startled now; and instinctively
her hand in her pocket exchanged the keys for her revolver. But she
saw nothing, heard nothing; and it was certainly dark inside there, and
therefore only logical to conclude that the room was unoccupied.
Reassured, she pushed the door cautiously and noiselessly open, and
stepped inside, and closed the door behind her. She stood still for an
instant, and then the round, white ray of her flashlight went dancing
inquisitively around the office. It was a medium-sized room, far
from ornate in its appointments, bare floored, the furniture of the
cheapest--Perlmer's clientele did not insist on oriental rugs and
mahogany!
Her appraisal of the room, however, was but cursory. She was interested
only in the flat-topped desk in front of her. She stepped quickly around
it--and stopped-and a low cry of dismay came from her as she stared at
the floor. The lower drawer had been completely removed, and now lay
upturned beside the swivel chair, its contents strewn around in all
directions.
And for a moment she stared at the scene, nonplused, discomfited. She
had been so sure that she would be first--and she had not been first.
There was no need to search amongst those papers on the floor. They told
their own story. The ones she wanted were already gone.
In a numbed way, mechanically, she retreated to the door; and, with the
flashlight playing upon it, she noticed for the first time that the
lock had been roughly forced. It was but corroborative of the despoiled
drawer; and, at the same time, the obvious reason why the door had not
been relocked when whoever had come here had gone out again.
Whoever had come here! She could have laughed out hysterically. Was
there any doubt as to who it was? One of Danglar's emissaries; the
Cricket, perhaps-or perhaps even Danglar himself! They had seen to it
that lack of prompt action, at least, would not be the cause of marring
their plans.
A little dazed, overwrought, confused at the ground being cut from under
her where she had been so confident of a sure footing, she made her way
out of the building, and to the street--and for a block walked almost
aimlessly along. And then suddenly she turned hurriedly into a cross
street, and headed over toward the East Side. The experience had
not been a pleasant one, and it had upset most thoroughly all her
calculations; but it was very far, after all, from being disastrous.
It meant simply that she must now find Nicky Viner himself and warn
the man, and there was ample time in which to do that. The code message
specifically stated midnight as the hour at which they proposed to favor
old Viner with their unhallowed attentions, and as it was but a little
after ten now, she had nearly a full two hours in which to accomplish
what should not take her more than a few minutes.