"That's easy. To marry you and get a strangle hold on your supposed
millions. Now I didn't want to tell you all this because it endangers
the game I'm playing. But I got you into it, and I don't want your
blood on my conscience either."
"My b-blood!" stammered Bobo, white as a sheet.
Jack said simply: "If you let yourself be inveigled into marrying that
girl, when she finds out you haven't got a sou, she'll kill you. She's
that kind."
Bobo shook as with an ague. "I'll never see her again," he whispered.
"I swear it!"
22
Jack--in the character of Mr. Pitman, had now reached a degree of
intimacy with Dave Anderson, manager of the Eureka Protective
Association, sufficient to enable him to drop into Anderson's private
office at any hour during the day without exciting remark. He was
careful never to display the least curiosity concerning Anderson's
business, but simply kept his eyes and ears open and picked up what he
could.
His patience was rewarded at last. One morning as he entered the
private office, he found Anderson engaged in tying up a little packet,
the significant size and shape of which made Jack's heart beat faster.
"Remittance day," said the indiscreet Anderson carelessly. "Just wait
till I get this off to the boss, and I'll go out and have a smile with
you."
Jack had instantly made up his mind to follow that packet. "Sorry," he
said, "can't stop now. Just dropped in to ask you the number of your
cigar-maker on lower Sixth avenue. I've got to go down in that
neighborhood, and I thought I'd get some."
"81 Sixth," said Anderson. "Will we lunch to-day?"
"All right," said Jack, "I'll be back in time."
Meanwhile Anderson was writing the address on the packet. Jack after
considerable practice had taught himself to read his writing upside
down. He now read:
"MR. PETER FEATHERSTONE,
Hotel Abercrombie.
(To be called for.)"
This was all he required. He bade Anderson good-by, and went out.
Having plenty of time, he proceeded in leisurely fashion to the
Abercrombie, one of the great hotels in the Thirty-Fourth street
district. He was filled with a great hope.
"Please God, I'll get him this time. I'm safe against recognition in
the Pitman disguise. I won't call on any plainclothes man now, but
trust to myself."
Prudence restrained him from premature rejoicings. "No counting of
chickens this time!" he warned himself. "Remember you're dealing with
a customer as slick as an eel. If he slips through your fingers you've
got to be prepared to begin all over to-morrow!"
In the pillared lobby of the Abercrombie Jack bought a newspaper, and
planted himself in a chair in such wise, that while appearing to be
absorbed in the news, he could command all that went on at the desk.
As he was waiting there little Harmon Evers the wig-maker passed
through. Jack, not wishing to be recognized by any one just then,
buried himself a little deeper in his newspaper, but Evers stopped
beside him, nodding and smiling. His expression approved the Pitman
make-up as put on by Jack.
"Couldn't have done better myself," he said.
Jack couldn't help but be flattered. "One becomes expert with
practice," he said.
"You're on your business and I'm on mine," Evers said with a sly smile,
indicating a little satchel that he carried.
"I didn't know you had to go out to yours," said Jack.
"Oh, yes, there's an elderly matinee idol lives here, who wouldn't dare
leave his room until I have renovated him. If there was an alarm of
fire before I got here, I believe he'd burn up."
Jack laughed.
"But I see you have serious affairs on your mind. Au revoir. Come
down to my place when you can, and we'll talk philosophy."
With a nod and a smile he went on to the elevator.
Meanwhile Jack had missed nothing of what went on at the desk. In a
short while a messenger boy came in carrying the packet he had seen in
Anderson's hands. It was receipted for at the desk and tossed in the
pigeonhole marked "F" of the division for letters to be called for.
For twenty minutes thereafter Jack watched the comedy of "The Hotel
Desk" being played before him. Unfortunately his mind was at too great
a tension to permit him to enjoy the finer shades of comedy. He
silently swore at the crowd and the confusion which made it well-nigh
impossible for one pair of eyes to follow all that was going on.
He concentrated on the letter box marked "F," and watched it until his
eyeballs seemed ready to crack.
Finally the hand of one of the clerks shot out to that box, and hastily
shuffling the contents, picked out the packet again. Jack's heart gave
a jump. He hastily scanned the row in front of the desk at the moment,
but there was no figure among them that answered to the descriptions of
"Mr. B." At the end of the row was another messenger boy. The clerk
handed the packet to him.
"Of course he wouldn't come himself," thought Jack.
Jack followed the messenger out of the hotel. Boy-like, he shambled up
the street, whistling vociferously, tossing the packet in the air and
catching it again, careless of the pedestrians he collided with in his
exercise. Presumably had he known the contents he would have treated
the packet with greater respect.
He turned West in Thirty-Fourth street, stopping to gaze in every
window that attracted his attention. Jack was hard put to it to
accommodate himself to the snail-like pace without being conspicuous.
At the Madison avenue corner an automobile had broken down. The boy
hailed this diversion with glee, and Jack, too, had to stand around
until the youngster had gazed his fill.
Suddenly the boy aimlessly darted across the street like a bird--or a
boy, threading his way among the cars hurrying in both directions.
Jack almost lost him then. He finally picked him up on the other side,
engaged in converse with another messenger. An argument developed and
hostilities were threatened.
"I kin lick you wit' one hand behind me."
"You're anutter!"
"Want to see me do it?"
"Ya-ah!"
"You jus' say any more and you'll see!"
"I ain't askeered of yeh, yeh big stiff!"
"You say that again!"
"Ahh! I dare yeh to touch me! I dare yeh!"
And so on, and so on. Jack, feeling very foolish, had to make out to
be studying the pattern of a rug displayed in a nearby window. Anybody
who knows boys knows that these discussions are apt to be kept up a
long time without getting anywhere. But they end as suddenly as they
begin. Having exhausted their powers of repartee they parted,
instantly forgetting each other. Jack's quarry continued around the
corner and up Fifth avenue.
There were other interruptions; a man was painting a sign; another was
dressing a window. Jack almost despaired of arriving at any
destination. He wondered if the old man was as impatiently awaiting
his packet. Finally it began to rain, and the boy mended his pace a
little. He led Jack into the Public Library, and Jack with an
accelerated beating of the heart wondered if the rendezvous were here.
But the boy went out again by the Forty-Second street door, and it
appeared he had only been taking advantage of the long corridors to
walk dry shod.
The messenger darted across Forty-Second street in his usual reckless
style, and Jack found himself back in the vicinity of the Eureka
offices. To his astonishment, the boy turned into that very building.
Jack went up in the elevator with him. He got put at the fourth floor,
and entered the Eureka offices.
Jack lingered in the corridor, biting his lips in chagrin. All his
trouble amounted to this, that he had been led back to the point he
started from. He wondered if it were possible that the seemingly
heedless Anderson had turned a clever trick on him. He felt that he
had to find out at whatever risk. He had a good excuse to enter, for
he had said he would be back. He entered, passing through the outer
office into Anderson's room as he was accustomed to do.
Anderson was in the act of receipting for the packet. He greeted Jack
without the least departure from his usual careless air, and Jack felt
relieved. The boy went out, already pursing up his lips to whistle.
It all meant nothing to him.
Jack ventured to say with an indifferent air: "Why, when I left you,
you were just sending out a packet like that."
"It was the very same package," Anderson replied. "Funny thing, half
an hour after I sent it the boss called up again, and said he'd changed
his mind and wanted it at the Hotel Madagascar. He never did that
before. I sent after it, but the boy was so long coming back, I went
to the bank and drew more. 'Tain't healthy to keep the boss waiting
too long. I just sent off the second lot."
"Madagascar!" thought Jack. "My own hotel! He has a nerve. Maybe
there's a chance to get him there!"
"Ready for lunch?" asked Anderson.
"Sorry, I can't go with you to-day," said Jack. "I've had a hurry call
from the house to go up to Yonkers. Just dropped in to tell you not to
wait."
"Oh, too bad!" said Anderson. "See you to-morrow?"
"Sure!"
23
While he descended in the elevator Jack thought quickly. His thoughts
were not altogether pleasant ones. Evidently "Mr. B." or one of his
agents had seen him watching in the Abercrombie and had taken warning.
If this were so his disguise had been seen through. Jack did not so
much mind the fact that his adversary had given him the slip again, but
he had counted heavily on that disguise. And now the whole structure
that he had built upon it was crumbling.
But he was far from being discouraged. "Mr. B." had had the nerve to
choose the Madagascar. Very well, he would try to call his bluff
there. Since it was his own hotel he didn't have to waste the time to
get there. He could telephone ahead. He hastened to the nearest booth.
He got the desk at the Madagascar. Establishing the fact that the
voice on the wire was that of Baldwin, a clerk well known to him, he
said:
"This is Robinson speaking, Mr. Norman's secretary. Do you recognize
my voice?"
"Yes, sir, certainly, Mr. Robinson."
"Listen carefully. There's a crook trying to pull a little game on Mr.
Norman, and I've framed up a plant to get him with the goods. Do you
get me?"
"Yes, sir."
"There's just been a package delivered to the desk there, or will be
delivered in a few minutes addressed to Mr. Peter Featherstone, to be
called for. No, wait a minute! That name may have been changed--but
I'm sure about the package. It's a small flat package the size and
shape of a bundle of greenbacks laid flat. It's wrapped in a sheet of
white typewriter paper, and tied with a green string. Look and see if
you have such a package there now. I'll hold the wire." Presently the
answer came: "Yes, sir, we have such a package, but it's addressed to
Mr. Amos Tewkesbury."
"That's all right," said Jack. "The name doesn't signify. Now I want
you to keep Connolly the house detective within call, and have him
arrest, as quietly as possible, whoever calls for that package. Keep
the man in the room behind the office until I can get there. I'll go
in by the side door and telephone down to you from our suite. Is that
all clear?"
"Perfectly, sir."
Jack hailed a taxi and had himself carried home, that is to say to
Kate's house, where Mr. Pitman had his ostensible domicile. It was not
the sober Mr. Pitman's habit to employ taxis, but this was an urgent
case. Jack had to remove the Pitman make-up, of course, before he
could show himself around the Madagascar.
He hastily changed to the more elegant attire of the millionaire's
secretary, and then made his way through the vault into Silas Gyde's
old rooms, thence across the corridor to the rear of the state
apartments. Something less than half an hour had elapsed since he had
called up Baldwin.
Bobo was there, moping in a dressing-gown while he waited for lunch
time, the only thing that relieved his heavy hours. He brightened a
little at the sight of some one to whom he might pour out his troubles.
"I wish I were dead!" he groaned.
Jack was in no mood to listen to him then. He ran to the telephone,
and snatched the receiver from the hook.
"What's up?" said Bobo, infected with his excitement.
"Give me Mr. Baldwin at the desk," Jack said to the operator.
"Hello, Baldwin. This is Robinson. Have you got my man?"
"Yes, sir, we've got him all right!"
"Thank God! Have him quietly brought up here."
Jack hung up the receiver and did a go-as-you-please around the Dutch
room, hurdling the chairs. Bobo gazed at him goggle-eyed.
"What on earth----!"
"I've got him!" cried Jack. "I've got him! I did it with my own
little wits. Once too often he tried to fool me! He was just a little
too nervy trying to pull something in my own hotel!"
"Got who? The old man himself!" cried Bobo amazed.
"Joy and deliverance!" sang Jack. "All honest millionaires can now
sleep easy o' nights!"
"But what's going to become of me now?" said poor Bobo.
Jack's transports were interrupted by a ring at the outer door of the
suite. He ran to it and flung it open.
Bitter disappointment awaited him.
It was not the famous, much-desired "Mr. B" that he saw outside nor was
it a figure that could possibly have taken his shape. Connolly, the
house detective, had his huge hand on the shoulder of a slinking, weedy
youth with sallow vacuous face, and cigarette stained fingers; in other
words, the typical loafer of the Times Square neighborhood. Baldwin
was behind the pair, eager to see what would happen.
"Oh, that's not my man!" cried Jack.
There was an awkward silence.
"I followed your instructions to the letter," said Baldwin, eager to
justify himself. "You said to arrest any man that asked for that
package. This man asked for it."
"Sure," said Jack quickly. "You did right. I'm disappointed, that's
all."
"I haven't done anything," whined the prisoner. "What are you going to
do to me?"
"Shall I let him go, sir?" boomed Connolly.
Jack roused himself. "Not on your life," he said. "He's got to give
an account of himself. Bring him in and shut the door." To the weedy
youth he said: "Who sent you here?"
The answer came voluble and craven: "I don't know who the guy was. I
never seen him before. Honest, I didn't know there was anything
crooked in it. I'm no crook, boss."
"Describe the man who sent you here."
The answer came readily: "A medium old guy, stoutish, not real fat.
Had his hair brushed in a funny way, old-fashioned-like, and a little
chin whisker."
"That's my man!" said Jack grimly. "Where did you meet him?"
"I was standin' in front of the pitcher theater on Seventh below
Forty-Second with some other fellows when a big black limousine car
came along and stopped at the curb. We all took notice of it, it was
such a long car, long as an ambulance. The door opened a little way,
and an old guy leaned out and held up a finger to me.
"He asks me if I want to earn a dollar, and I says sure. So he tells
me to go to the desk of the Madagascar, and ask for a package for Mr.
Amos Tewkesbury, and bring it to him. But he said he wouldn't be in
the car when I got back. He said he'd be standing on the northwest
corner of Forty-Second Street and Seventh, and I wasn't to stop when I
saw him, but just slip him the package, and take the dollar he'd be
holding in his hand. That's all. I didn't see no wrong in it."
"Maybe he's lying, sir," said Connolly.
Jack shook his head. "Sounds like my man," he said.
"What'll I do with him, sir?"
"Let him have the package and let him go," said Jack.
To the prisoner he said sternly: "Your story may be true, but this is
an ugly business you've mixed yourself up in. You'd have a hard time
proving your innocence in court. The only way you can square yourself
is by helping us pinch this crook."
The sallow youth turned a shade paler. "He's stronger than me, and
he's heeled," he muttered.
"I don't want you to lay hands on him. I'll take care of that. You
follow your instructions just as he gave them to you. Hand him the
package without stopping. Go quickly, and don't look behind you."
To Connolly Jack said: "Take a taxi to the corner of Eighth and
Forty-Second, and walk back on Forty-Second. You've heard the
description of the man I want, and the car he rides in. If he gives me
the slip, and tries to escape towards the West, nab him."
It was still raining. Jack snatched up an umbrella and, opening it
with his penknife, made a little triangular cut midway in the silk.
"My disguise," he said.
The sallow youth, clasping the package, hurried out of the hotel with
Jack at his heels. Jack raised the umbrella and held it low over his
head. Thus while his face was hidden from the passersby, he could
still see ahead through the little hole. The stretch of pavement
between the Madagascar and Forty-Second street was as thronged as it is
twenty hours out of the twenty-four, even in the rain.
They had crossed Forty-Third street and were within two hundred feet of
the appointed place. Jack was peering eagerly ahead through his
peep-hole, when suddenly his umbrella was knocked sideways, and a
clawlike hand clutched his wrist. A cracked voice squalled:
"Stop him! He snatched my pocketbook!"
It was a bent little old woman in a queer rusty bonnet over a brown
wig. She wore glasses so thick, that her eyes were like little points
far behind them. She redoubled her cries.
"He's a thief! He stole my pocketbook!"
Jack crimsoned with anger and mortification. He was helpless. To
knock the old woman out of the way would only have been to convict
himself of her preposterous charge. In five seconds a great crowd was
pushing and shoving around them.
"All my money! All my money!" wailed the old woman, and actually two
tears rolled down her withered cheeks. It was the perfection of acting.
A loud murmur of sympathy went up from the crowd, and violent threats
were made in Jack's face. He ground his teeth in impotent rage.
Anything he might have said would only have made matters worse. He
retained the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut.
"Hold him!" cried the old woman. "I'll get a policeman!"
Half a dozen pairs of hands seized Jack roughly. The old woman
threaded her way with surprising celerity through the crowd.
Jack permitted himself to say: "You'll never see her again. It's a
frame-up to let her and her partner make a getaway."
"Shut up, you thief!" they roared. "Shut up, or we'll smash your hat
over your eyes." Those behind who had little idea of what was going on
roared out of sympathy.
But the temper of a crowd is subject to abrupt changes. A minute
passed and the old woman did not return. It suddenly struck the people
that the well-dressed Jack, proud, angry and silent, did not much
resemble a purse-snatcher. Jack, feeling the change, said scornfully:
"Do you see her coming back? I tell you it's a frame-up."
The men who had hold of Jack became uncertain, and finally let go.
Jack elbowed his way out, and none sought to stop him now. The crowd
dissolved. The whole incident had occupied less than two minutes, but
that was long enough to do the mischief. The packet presumably had
been handed over, and both messenger and principal swallowed up.
Jack hastened over the remaining distance to the corner of Forty-Second
street. Neither the sallow youth nor the old gentleman with the
imperial was visible of course. Jack hesitated at a loss which way to
turn. There was a chance that the old man, having received the money,
had turned Westward and so might be intercepted by Connolly, but it was
a faint one.
While Jack stood there the traffic officer at that important crossing
gave the signal for the East and West-bound traffic to cross, and a
double line of cars darted across Seventh Avenue. Fourth in the line
of those bound East Jack saw the long black limousine that had been so
often described to him.
As it flashed by he had a glimpse of a silk-hatted head with gray hair
brushed forward of the ears, ruddy complexion, gray moustache and
imperial. Alongside was the rusty black bonnet and the brown wig. The
man's head was down, and his attitude suggested he was counting
something in his lap. The woman's glance followed his.
It was Jack's first glimpse of his quarry, and his hunting instinct was
spurred to action. He made a zig-zag dash across the street under the
very wheels of motors and trolley cars. The black limousine was out of
his reach, but by great good luck he found a taxicab standing by the
curb with its engine running.
He flung himself in, crying: "Four times your fare if you can keep that
car in sight. A hundred dollars if I am able to arrest the couple in
it!"
The taxi leaped ahead. Jack lowered the front window, and leaning
forward, pointed out the right car to the chauffeur. In a wild spurt
down Forty-Second street they gained half a block on the limousine.
They just managed to get across Sixth avenue before the whistle blew.
At Fifth the whole line was held up for perhaps half a minute. The
press was so great here, Jack could not see the black car, but he had
carefully marked its position, about six cars ahead.
When the whistle blew for the East and West traffic to resume they saw
it turn down Fifth with a burst of speed. They followed. In and out
of the close traffic the big car threaded its way with a wonderful
exhibition of sang-froid on the part of the chauffeur. Jack had a good
chauffeur too. But a race through such a crowd is purely a matter of
luck. They never succeeded in getting within less than five car
lengths of their prize. Jack saw that the black car now bore a Georgia
license. He made note of the number.
At Thirty-Fourth street the line was held up again. The whistle had
just blown, and this promised to be a longer stoppage. Jack jumped out
of the taxi, and ran ahead down the line with fast beating heart.
The black limousine was empty.
Jack gritted his teeth. "The devil's own luck favors him," he thought.
"They must have left the car during the block on Forty-Second."
The chauffeur had not seen him. Jack did not approach him, thinking it
better to take a chance of following him to his garage. The line got
in motion again, and Jack swung himself aboard his taxi as it passed.
At Twenty-Eighth street the whistle blew just as the black car was
crossing. It continued blithely down the avenue, the chauffeur
waggling a derisive hand outside his car. Jack would have risked
defying the whistle, but his way was effectually blocked by other cars
in front and on both sides.
"My luck again!" he groaned.
They were held up there while a ten-horse truck bearing a steel girder
crawled across the Avenue. When the whistle gave them leave to move
again, the limousine had disappeared into a side street. They saw it
no more.
Jack had the license number, but an investigation instituted by
telegraph only proved as he expected, that that number had been issued
to some one giving a mythical address in Atlanta. As for notifying the
New York police, he knew very well that within half an hour the license
tags on the black limousine would be changed.
24
The most indomitable spirits have their dark hours, and this was
Jack's. He returned to the Madagascar feeling that he had come to the
end of his resources. It was hard to bear with the commiseration of
the hotel detective and clerk on his failure; and he was in no mood to
put up with Bobo's selfish complaints.
Bobo's reasoning powers, as has been seen, were of a primitive
simplicity. Like a child or a savage he was always under the complete
sway of the feeling of the moment. Just now he was, or thought he was,
broken-hearted over the loss of Miriam. Forgetting that he had given
her up of his own free will, and for good cause, he blamed Jack for all
his present misery.
"Did you get him?" he asked when Jack came in.
"No."
To say that Bobo was pleased at the escape of "Mr. B." would be putting
it too strongly, but he was certainly not sorry to see Jack's
discomfiture.
"Huh! You're too sure of yourself!" he said.
Jack flashed an angry look at him, but said nothing.
"You always think you know more than anybody else!" Bobo unwisely went
on. "You're always making up your mind what people are, and telling
them what, to do, and all. You want to regulate the universe."
"Still thinking about that girl!" said Jack. "Will you please tell me
what Mr. B.'s giving me the slip has got to do with her?"
"I'm just telling you you don't know everything," said Bobo with a
superior air.
It was too much. Jack's patience snapped suddenly. "You fool! Your
talk has as much sense as barnyard cackle! Is it my fault that you
lost your head over an adventuress? This is the thanks I get for
trying to save you! For Heaven's sake, go and marry her and be damned
to you! But stop grousing about it to me!"
He went out slamming the door, and leaving a much-scared Bobo behind
him. Passing through the suite, he crossed to Gyde's old rooms, and
let himself through the vault into his room in Kate's house. There was
a great change in this room. Under the present régime it was a model
of neatness and comfort.
Here Jack lit his pipe and flung himself down, and a measure of peace
returned to him. There was comfort in the silence, and in the thought
of the locks that secured him from the chatter of fools.
"The old boy wasn't so far wrong when he built himself a refuge like
this," he thought.
But by and by when the fragrant smoke had steadied his nerves, he began
to tire of solitude. To particularize, he desired the society of a
certain person, to wit: the mistress of the house.
In order to see her it was necessary for him to assume the Pitman
make-up. Much against his will--he was thinking of putting Mr. Pitman
out of the way now, he arrayed himself in that character, and sallied
forth in search of Kate.
He found her in her own sunny sitting-room on the floor above. The
old-fashioned mother was there too. Mrs. Storer was not in the secret
of Jack's disguise. She considered Mr. Pitman rather a common fellow,
but was always polite. Now after a few minutes' small conversation,
she recollected an errand in her well-trained way, and left the room.
Kate was sewing. The needle became her better than the typewriter. As
mistress of a house she seemed to have discovered her true vocation.
It may be mentioned in passing that this establishment was a success,
and was already paying its way.
"We don't see much of you now," said Kate.
"It's not from not wanting to on my part," he said, watching her
dreamily. "But a twenty-four hour day scarcely gives you time enough
to play one part, let alone two or three." The sunlight behind her was
making a little halo in the edges of her dark hair, and he scarcely
knew what his tongue was saying.
"How are things going?" she asked.
The consciousness of defeat still rankled in Jack's breast; he felt a
very natural desire to shine in somebody's eyes, so he said carelessly:
"My net is closing around the old man. He can't escape me now. I'll
gather him in, when my case is complete."
"Fine!" said Kate.
But Jack could not be sure there was not a faint ring of irony in her
voice. He never could be sure of Kate.
"All my lines are working well," he went on. "I had a glimpse of the
old man to-day, but I thought it was better to let him go for awhile.
I'm not sure of being able to convict him."
"This morning when you left this house I believe you were followed,"
said Kate.
Jack was not going to admit just then that there was anything he had
overlooked. "Oh, I think not."
"Well, I noticed a man standing at the corner looking at this house.
His hat was pulled down over his eyes. As soon as you went out he
disappeared."
"I take precautions against being trailed," said Jack.
"And I believe somebody has been tampering with the servants," Kate
went on. "Yesterday I found Bessie, the upstairs girl, exhibiting
entirely too much curiosity as to the arrangements of your room. I
shall let her go at the end of the week."
"It isn't possible they could have discovered the secret of this
house," said Jack. Something told him he was talking fatuously, but a
little devil of perversity held sway over him for the time being.
"You know best of course," said Kate.
This time he was almost sure he heard the ironical note, and he glanced
at her uneasily. But the dark head was bent too low over her work for
him to read her face. He felt a mighty desire to humble this cool and
scornful maid, and changed his tack.
"You're looking very charming to-day."
"Thank you."
He got up, and sat as close to her as he could pull a chair.
"Go back where you were," she said calmly.
"I won't!" he said masterfully.
"Then I will." And she changed to the chair he had left.