But he had had time to see what he was looking for: on the inside of
the index finger was a large pale mole, as big as the button on a
woman's glove.
13
Though it was near morning when they turned in, Jack was astir early,
eager to begin the real work on his case. His surprising
identification of Miriam as the former spy on Silas Gyde whetted his
zeal. Her present game of course was to secure the supposed
millionaire in the bonds of matrimony. Was the Red Gang behind that,
or was it a private venture? Jack was inclined to think it was all
part of the same scheme. In either case Mrs. Cleaver, notwithstanding
her social position, must be Miriam's confederate. It was Mrs. Cleaver
who had picked them up. This put the game on a pretty high level.
Almost every hour of the past two days had made Jack's problem more
complicated--but also more fascinating.
When he was dressed, Jack mercilessly awoke the luxurious Bobo.
"Oh, Lord!" groaned the plump youth. "Do I have to get up?"
"You can sleep all day if you like. But we have to have a little talk
before I go out. Sit up and rub the sleep out of your eyes and pay
attention."
Bobo obeyed, groaning lugubriously.
"It's about Miss Miriam Culbreth."
"Eh?" said Bobo, suddenly wide awake.
"Do you remember all you told me about her last night?"
"Of course I do."
"Doesn't it seem a little foolish to you this morning?"
"No, it doesn't! She's the most beautiful girl in the world. I love
her more than ever!"
"Well, I'm sorry. I didn't take you very seriously last night. I
thought it was too sudden. You've got to cut her out."
"Why?" asked Bobo blankly.
Jack deliberated before answering. He decided against telling Bobo the
whole truth. It was within the bounds of possibility that the
infatuated youth might tell the girl.
"I can't tell you all my reasons now," he said. "But believe me they
are good reasons. It has to do with the game we are playing."
"You're not fair to her!" Bobo burst out. "You don't like her. She
told me so herself."
"You're right, I don't like her. I have mighty good reasons for it."
"She's the noblest woman on God's footstool!"
"I'm not going to argue that with you," said Jack dryly. "I am
speaking for your own good. When you first told me about her, I was
afraid the poor girl might be taken in, thinking you were a
millionaire. But I'm not worrying about her now. She's able to look
after number one. But I tell you if you do not put her out of your
head now, before the matter goes any further, you'll regret it till you
die. I can't put it any stronger than that, can I?"
"I can't give her up! I _can't_! I love her!" cried Bobo, flinging
himself down among the pillows.
"Take my word for it," said Jack earnestly, "she's no good!"
"You're wrong! You're wrong!"
Jack began to lose patience. "Well, if you won't listen to reason
you'll have to take an order. Remember our agreement. You've got to
give her up. This is an order, now."
"I can't! I can't!" moaned Bobo.
As usual in the display of Bobo's emotions, there was something both
ludicrous and pathetic in the sight of the fat tousled head threshing
the pillows. Jack grinned and said:
"Oh, go to sleep again. When you get up, have a bang-up breakfast and
you'll feel better. I'll look in on you at lunch time."
Jack's first visit upon setting out from the hotel was to the offices
of the Eureka Protective Association, at the address on Forty-Second
street given on their representative's card.
He found the Association installed in an ordinary suite, neither
grandly nor shabbily furnished, but entirely businesslike. The
customary staff of a small office was visible at work: bookkeeper,
stenographer and office-boy. In fact to the eye it was a wholly
conventional establishment; open, aboveboard and prosperous.
Upon asking for the manager Jack was shown to an inner room, where a
man of about thirty-five with a mop of lank, blonde hair hanging on his
forehead, and what is known as an open countenance, was seated at a
desk trimming his nails in unashamed idleness. It appeared that this
was Mr. Anderson.
"Dave Anderson at your service," said he good-naturedly. "What can I
do for you?
"My name is Robinson," said Jack, "secretary to Mr. Norman."
The atmosphere became balmier, as always with the mention of that magic
name. "Sit down, Mr. Robinson."
Jack obeyed. "Mr. Norman felt that he wanted to know a little more
about your association, and sent me around to ask a few questions."
"Perfectly natural!" cried Mr. Anderson. "Fire away! We court the
fullest investigation. Certain parts of our business, of course, have
to be conducted in secrecy, but as to our responsibility and
trustworthiness, go as far as you like."
Jack asked all the natural questions, and Mr. Anderson answered them
with every appearance of frankness. The information he gave merely
amplified the talk of his representative the day before; the great
public service Eureka performed, etc., etc. Jack learned nothing
really significant from his talk, nor had he expected to. He asked no
searching questions, because he did not want Anderson to guess that his
customer was suspicious.
Jack's real purpose was to learn what kind of man was at the head of
this branch of the Red Gang's activities, and while Anderson talked he
studied him. In the end he had to confess himself baffled. Anderson
was anything but what he had expected to find. He seemed like one of
those rather slack individuals who represent the average of mankind;
neither good nor bad; neither wise nor foolish; an untidy,
well-meaning, loose-tongued fellow. How such a one could be trusted to
direct an important part of so dangerous an enterprise, Jack was unable
to understand--unless it were that Anderson himself did not know what
was behind the scheme. But that did not seem credible either.
Jack left him, professing to be entirely satisfied on his employer's
account.
Mr. Delamare's promised letter of introduction to the third Deputy
Commissioner had come in the morning's mail. Jack's next visit was to
police headquarters to present it. He wished to establish a connection
there on which he could fall back on in case of need.
He found the deputy an accommodating and capable official. Since he
bears no part in Jack's story, it is unnecessary to characterize him
further. Jack had no intention of taking him into his confidence just
yet. He merely said that he was undertaking a little detective work
for his employer, and the Deputy furnished him with a circular letter
to all members of the force, instructing them to lend the bearer any
assistance that he required. Here, as elsewhere, the wonder-working
name of Norman smoothed Jack's way.
While he was there, Jack inquired as to the status of the investigation
into Silas Gyde's murder. He found that it was at a standstill. The
assassin, Jansen, was confined in an asylum a raving maniac, and
nothing of importance had been unearthed concerning his antecedents.
If he had been a member of any anarchistic circle the fact had not been
established. He appeared to have led a solitary life, moving from one
hall bedroom to another. His mind had been gradually undermined by too
close an application to his anarchistic studies, and to a book on the
subject that he was writing.
The fact of the book was new to Jack. "Have you the manuscript?" he
asked.
"It was found in his room," the Deputy said.
"May I see it?"
"Certainly. But you'll find neither head nor tail to it."
It was brought, and Jack was obliged to confess the justice of the
Deputy's description. It was the product of an insane brain. One
could not read more than a line or two before the head began to whirl.
But Jack discovered a clew in the manuscript which had apparently
escaped the police. He did not call the attention of the Deputy to it,
but made a mental note for his own use. On the first page under the
many and fantastic titles of the proposed work was a dedication in two
words:
"_To Barbarossa_"
Jack walked uptown turning over the word "Barbarossa" in his mind.
Where had he heard it before? Was it the name of a famous historical
character or an ocean liner? The sign of a branch of the Public
Library gave him an idea. He went in and consulted an encyclopedia.
This told him two things; firstly, that Barbarossa meant Redbeard, and
secondly, that the original Barbarossa was a Turkish sea rover. As he
was unable to figure out any connection between the old freebooter and
a modern anarchist, he deduced that the old nickname had been
re-applied to some new wearer of a red beard.
At the library desk he inquired: "Is there any writer on anarchistic
subjects who signs himself Barbarossa?"
"We have very little of that sort of matter," the lady librarian
assured him frigidly. "There is no such name in our catalogue of
authors."
"Is there a bookstore where they make a specialty of such writings?"
asked Jack.
The librarian admitted with strong distaste that there was, and gave
him the address.
It was a little basement shop far on the East side. It was presided
over by a lanky-haired, spectacled youth, who sneered at Jack's good
clothes, and was prepared to hate him on the spot.
"Have you anything by Barbarossa?" Jack asked at a venture.
"Barbarossa's never written any books that I know of," was the surly
reply.
Jack thought with satisfaction: "Then there is a Barbarossa!" Aloud he
said: "I mean anything he's written."
The youth looked at him suspiciously.
"I heard him speak," said Jack glibly. "I'm crazy to learn more about
his ideas."
"Barbarossa writes for the _Future Age_ magazine," said the
snaky-haired one. "He's one of the editors. How is it you don't know
that if you know him?"
"I don't know him," said Jack. "I only heard him speak. Have you got
a copy of the _Future Age_?"
The young book-seller produced it. "There's his article this month,"
he said, pointing to a title in the contents. The author's name given
opposite was Arno Sturani.
"Is that Barbarossa's real name?" asked Jack.
"Everybody knows that!" was the scornful reply.
Jack bought the magazine, as well as other anarchistic publications
that caught his eye. He told himself it would be a good idea to study
up their lingo a little, against a future need.
At a corner drug-store in the neighborhood he purchased a sheet of
cheap note-paper and an envelope, and on the counter laboriously
composed the following note:
_Mr. Arno Sturani:_
_Dear Sir:_
_I read some of your articles In the "Future Age." I think they are
great, but don't understand them very good. I am only a poor boy
without much education. But I like to think about things. I want to
force the capitalists to give us a square deal. I want to learn more
about your ideas. Will you let me come to see you? Or tell me where
you are going to speak next time._
_Yours respectfully,
Henry Cassels._
The druggist gave his permission for Jack to receive an answer at his
store, so he gave that as his address. He sent the letter in the care
of the _Future Age_ magazine.
"There's one line started," he said to himself, as he let it fall in
the box.
14
Another thing that Jack had in mind was the necessity of disguising
himself. Being an entire stranger to the art of make-up, he required
instruction. Ralph, their private bell-boy at the Madagascar, had
seemed the likeliest person to apply to in such a case. Leaving the
hotel that morning, Jack had said to him carelessly:
"I'm invited to a masquerade. Where's the best place to go for an
outfit? I want something better than the ordinary costumer."
"Why don't you try Harmon Evers?" was the reply. "All the theatrical
people go to him. He's the greatest make-up artist in New York."
"Where's his place?"
"Twenty-ninth street, just east of the Avenue."
Jack now bent his steps in that direction. He discovered a neat little
shop on the street level with a sign reading: