"I thought we were going to work together," she pouted.
Jack still affected to treat the matter as a joke. "You surely don't
expect me to yield up the only source of my power!--the hand upon the
purse strings!"
She shook an arch finger at him--but there was an angry spark in the
hazel eyes. "Beware!" she said merrily. "The power of the faithful
secretary is threatened by the adored wife. You'd better accept my
offer of an alliance when it is open."
"Oh, when Bobo takes a wife I'll resign," said Jack, laughing.
Bobo came bustling back at this juncture. "I've had a deuce of a
time," he grumbled. "The theater was closed. I found the watchman,
but he wouldn't let me in. Said he'd find the pin if it was there, and
turn it into the box-office. Old fool!"
"It was cruel of me to send you all that way," cooed Miriam. "Sit down
and eat a good supper. I shan't be able to eat a mouthful till you say
you forgive me!"
"Forgive you!" cried poor Bobo. "I'd go to China and back if it would
please you!"
They gazed into each other's eyes, while Jack grimly sipped his wine.
"You're clever," he was thinking, "but there's a serious defect in your
method. How do you expect me to fall for you, when you let me see you
making such a fool of Bobo!"
16
Meanwhile Jack was not neglecting his other "lines." In the character
of Mr. Pitman he lunched with Dave Anderson nearly every day, and the
intimacy between them ripened fast. After several invitations, Mr.
Pitman finally allowed himself to be persuaded to visit Mr. Anderson's
office.
They sat in the inner office with their cigars, and discussed crime in
all its aspects.
"Anything--er--specially interesting on just now?" asked Mr. Pitman,
with a look suggesting that he was not averse to hearing the most
horrible details. Jack, under Evers' tuition had developed the
character of Pitman to a high degree of artistry.
"No. The fact is I don't go after ordinary business any more; don't
have to. I only have one case, so to speak, and that keeps me on Easy
street. All I have to do is sit here and take the money.
"What a cinch! What kind of case is it?"
"Did you notice the name on the door?"
"Eureka Protective Association. Whom do you protect?"
"Millionaires!"
Thereupon Jack had to submit to hearing again what a fine concern
Eureka was, what a benefit it conferred on the public, etc., etc.
Though Anderson was at his ease with his friend, he told it all as
seriously as before; there was no suggestion of a tongue in his cheek.
Jack listened with well-assumed interest, hoping to get some real light
on the subject later.
"How did you get into it in the first place?" he asked.
"Dumb luck!" said Anderson. "I'll tell you all about it some day."
Jack, fearful of spoiling everything by a display of eagerness, let the
matter drop for the present. Fate presently rewarded his discretion.
"I haven't a thing to do this afternoon," said Anderson. "And you said
you weren't busy. Let's go out and have a drink."
Mr. Pitman did not refuse, of course. They went and had their drink,
and had another, and in the course of the afternoon Anderson's tongue
was gradually unloosed, and the whole story came out.
"It was three years ago it started. I was doing a general detective
business, and just barely making out, week by week. It was the time
that big millionaire Ames Benton was killed by anarchists; remember?"
Jack nodded. He had a feeling that the loose ends of his case were now
beginning to draw together.
"One day an oldish gentleman called at my office," Anderson went on, "a
decent, respectable body, that you would expect to see coming out of
church on Sunday morning. His hair was fixed in an old-fashioned way,
sort of brushed forward of his ears like, and he wore a heavy mustache
and neat little goatee or imperial."
Jack had the pleasant feeling that he was getting "warm" as children
say in their game. They were sitting in an alcove of a saloon under
the elevated railway, and he was glad of the semi-gloom of the place
that prevented Anderson from seeing his face too clearly.
"He didn't give me his name," Anderson went on, "in fact I don't know
it to this day. I just call him 'Mr. B.' He told me right off the bat
that he was an anarchist, and I was a bit startled, noticing the little
black satchel he carried. I remarked that he didn't gee with my idea
of a Red, and he explained that he was disguised. So I don't even know
what he looks like naturally."
"He went on to tell me that he had experienced what he called a change
of heart--sort o' got religion you understand. The murder of Mr.
Benton had sickened him, he said, and now he was anxious to do
something to make up for the harm he had caused."
"He let on that he was one of the leading Reds of the country, a kid of
supreme grand master with the entrée to every lodge. He said he wasn't
going to betray any of his comrades, but that with my help, if I was
willing, he would draw their teeth, so to speak, by giving warning to
their intended victims.
"Well, I wasn't in a philanthropic mood myself, being as I had so much
trouble already to make ends meet, and I didn't want to invite trouble
with the Reds or anybody else, so at first I was cool to his scheme.
But as he talked on I began to wake up to the possibilities.
"Well, sir, we began to dope out the scheme of Eureka right then, or
rather, he doped it out and I listened with big ears. He had it all
thought out before he came. When he talked about getting all the
millionaires to subscribe for personal protection, I saw a happy future
opening up. The best of it was, it was absolutely bona fide, and on
the level; we really had something to sell them, for my friend, as I
say, had the entrée to every anarchistic circle in the country, and was
prepared to furnish me with full information of any plot they laid
against a rich man."
"The only thing we stuck on was the division of the proceeds. He
demanded seventy-five per cent. I tried to laugh him down--but it
didn't get across. He wasn't a man you could get gay with. He had an
eye that fixed you like a brad-awl.
"'You forget,' he said, 'that I'm the one who supplies the essential
thing. I could get any one of a hundred detective agencies for the
rest.'
"I tried to bluff him a bit. 'Not after you've opened it to me,' I
said. 'I could queer it!'
"'You won't do that,' he said very quiet. And, by Gad, when he fixed
me with those eyes, I thought of a dozen horrible deaths I might die,
and I knew that I couldn't split on him if I wanted to. A wonderful
man. In the end I had to accept his hard terms.
"Well, that's all. From the start it worked like a charm. With the
horrible death of Ames Benton fresh in their minds, the millionaires
fell all over themselves to subscribe for protection. We started at a
moderate figure, and gradually jacked up their dues. You'd open your
eyes if I told you the amount of money that passes through this little
office every month."
"Give me an idea," said Jack.
"That's something I'll never tell any man," said Anderson with a
slightly drunken leer.
"Do you only operate in the city here?"
"Yes. He may have other agencies outside. He may have other agencies
right here in town for all I know. It was part of our agreement that I
was to approach nobody except the men whose names he furnished. I
haven't all the millionaires on my books by a long sight."
"Do you mean to tell me you've been in business with this man for three
years and don't even know his right name?"
"It's a fact, and what's more I've never laid eyes on him from that day
to this."
"Come off!" said Jack incredulously.
"It's a fact, I tell you. It stands to reason, don't it, that he
couldn't be seen around here?"
"You could meet him outside."
"Too risky. If the other anarchists got on to his connection with me,
his life wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel!"
"But you know where he lives?"
Anderson shook his head.
"Then how do you send him his share of the proceeds?"
"I send it in cash on a certain day every week. I put it in an
envelope together with a statement of the week's business, and send it
to a name and address previously furnished me that day over the 'phone.
It's always different. Generally to a hotel, to be called for. I send
it by messenger."
"Have you never had the curiosity to follow up the messenger?"
"No, sir! I've learned that it's healthier for me to follow
instructions. I get my instructions over the 'phone, and by Gad! if
they're not carried out to the letter he knows it, and I soon know it
from him!"
"He must be a wonderful man."
"He's a marvel! Say it scares you like, the way he knows things. He
tells me everything to do: who to see and how to approach him; how to
follow him up. And everything always turns out just the way he says.
It's like magic!"
Anderson's talk got a little muzzy, and drifted away to other subjects.
A perfunctory attention was all he required and Jack's brain was free
to ponder on what he had heard. He believed Anderson's story in the
main. Incredible as it had seemed beforehand, he no longer doubted
that Anderson was an innocent tool in the affair--at least
comparatively innocent. The great sums he was making had no doubt
helped to quiet an inquiring mind. When one is anxious not to discover
an unpleasant fact, one may very easily remain in ignorance of it
through all.
It began to look as if the decent little gentleman with the goatee was
the guiding spirit in the whole scheme. Jack had made a long step
forward in his investigation, but he now found himself opposed by an
intelligence of the first class; one before whom Jack's youth and
inexperience might well falter a little. He marvelled at the cunning
with which the principal used innocent men to further his criminal
projects. Apparently he had built up a highly organized business of
blackmail, with various departments all working independently of each
other. And he gathered up all strings in his own hands.
17
Arno Sturani, otherwise "Barbarossa," answered Jack's note and invited
him to call at his house in the evening.
Jack visited Evers' shop as a preliminary, and he was obliged to go in
the afternoon before closing hours. He dispatched Bobo to dine with
Mrs. Cleaver and Miriam. While Bobo could hardly be said to be safe in
that company, still it was some satisfaction to Jack to know where he
was.
The astute little wig-maker and his wife, the retired ballet-dancer,
greeted Jack like an old and valued customer. Old-fashioned
shop-keepers have this art.
"Everything going well?" asked Mr. Evers.
"Splendidly!"
"That little job I did for you; has it served its turn?"
"Couldn't have been better."
"What do you require to-day?"
"A fresh make-up for another purpose."
"Ah! Come back into one of the dressing-rooms."
Mr. Evers was distressed to learn that Jack had put himself out to get
to the shop before closing time.
"You can make an appointment by 'phone for any hour of the day or
night," he said. "Of course it would be too conspicuous for me to let
you in and out of the shop after closing hours, but my apartment is
upstairs. Come there any time, and we can get what we need out of the
shop."
Jack thanked him. "This time," he said, "I want to look like a mere
lad, a poor boy in cheap worn clothes, but a student, a highbrow, full
of wild, anarchistic ideas."
"Anarchistic?" said Mr. Evers, elevating the scant eyebrows. "Are you
going into that kind of society?"
"Temporarily."
"Beware! I know nothing about such people, but I am told they are like
wild beasts. Curious, isn't it, how they run to hair? Disturbs all my
theories. Such beards! Such tangled, flowing locks. How is it that
men so unbalanced are thus favored?"
"I don't know," said Jack, smiling. "Perhaps they don't have any more
than other men to start with, but spare the scissors and the razor."
"I've taken that into account. Even so, you never heard of a bald
anarchist, did you?"
Jack admitted that he had not. "Perhaps I can give you some first-hand
information later," he added.
Mr. Evers said he would be glad of it.
"Now let me see as to your make-up," he went on. "Your luxuriant hair
will now come in handy. Let it fall over your eyes so. A pair of
thick glasses this time to make you look short-sighted. I have a pair
specially made with lenses of clear glass let in to enable you to see
where you are going. Clothes are the principal item. I think I have
just what you require."
"It's no trouble for me to make you look like a youth who might
frequent such company," he said, "but the question is, can you keep up
the character once you get there? I am told those people talk a
strange jargon of phrases that the uninitiated cannot understand."
"I've been boning up on their literature," said Jack. "I think I can
keep my end up."
"Ah, I see I am not dealing with a tyro," said Mr. Evers with a
flattering air of respect.
Jack dined at an humble little restaurant on the East Side, such as
befitted his new condition, and afterwards presented himself at the
address on East Broadway furnished by Sturani's letter. It was one of
those plain old-fashioned dwellings common in the neighborhood. They
are occupied by the elite of the East Side; that is to say, doctors,
lawyers, politicians, who still find it profitable to live among their
clients and constituents.
Barbarossa's house was a combination of residence, school and club. On
a brass plate beside the door was the legend: "Sturani School of Social
Science." A youth, much the same as the one who had sold him books,
let Jack in, and after favoring him with a hard stare, led him to a
small room at the back and told him to wait. The house seemed to be
full of Barbarossa's disciples. Jack had glimpses of groups in the
unfurnished parlors, arguing with fury.
Jack had learned that Barbarossa's position among anarchists
corresponded in a way with the description of himself which the
mysterious Mr. B. had furnished Anderson, and he naturally inferred
that Barbarossa might be another alias of Mr. B.'s. His heart beat
fast with excitement as he waited for him, thinking that he was perhaps
about to come face to face with his real adversary.
But when the redoubtable Barbarossa plunged into the room, Jack was
speedily disillusioned of his hopes. Plunged is the only word to use:
the anarchist's movements were like those of a frolicking mastiff--only
Barbarossa always affected an air of weighty import. He was enormously
fat, and it was genuine fat, as Jack could tell by the shake and sag of
him as he flung himself into a chair. By no stretch could he have
transformed himself into the neat, decent little gentleman so often
described to Jack. This was not Mr. B.
Moreover, Barbarossa had a mass of red hair standing on end around his
head like a halo, and a spreading red beard. These were indubitably
real, too, and had obviously taken years to produce.
"You're Cassels," grunted Barbarossa.
"Yes, sir."
"Humph! English!"
"English descent, sir."
"We don't get many English boys interested in ideas."
Jack privately hoped this would not count against him. He had
considered assuming a foreign character, but had given it up as being
too difficult to maintain.
"What do you want of me?" demanded Barbarossa.
"I want to learn," said Jack. "I want to meet men with ideas. I want
to take part in the movement."
"Have you any money?"