THE LITTLE FELLOW IN GREY
It turned out that George Deaves could lay his hands on the money,
though perhaps it was not easy for him to do so. George's principal
fortune consisted in being the son of his father; he could get almost
unlimited credit on the strength of that connection. When Simeon
Deaves saw that he was determined to pay the money to the blackmailers,
he urged him to accept Evan's offer to run them down, and in the end,
notwithstanding his terror of Maud Deaves, George gave in. Father and
son, who had begun the day by accusing Evan of the crime, ended by
depending on Evan to run down the criminals.
At ten o'clock George Deaves and Evan set out for the bank. It was not
far and they proceeded on foot down the Avenue. Evan kept his eyes
open about him, and before they had gone more than a block or two he
spotted the well-remembered little figure in the grey suit still
dogging their footsteps. Drawing George Deaves up to a shop window as
if to show him something inside, he called his attention to the
stripling with the pale and watchful face. Deaves shivered.
"Do you suppose he means us personal harm?" he said.
Evan smiled to himself, seeing the size of their enemy. "Well, I
hardly think so," he said. "At least not as long as we seem disposed
to pay up."
Deaves was received at the bank with extreme deference. He was not
obliged to apply at the teller's window like a common customer, but was
shown directly into the manager's office which looked on the pavement
of the Avenue. A fine-meshed screen protected the occupants of the
room from the vulgar gaze of the populace, but those inside could see
out, and as soon as they entered the room Evan discovered the youth in
the grey suit hanging about the door of the bank, unaware of the
nearness of his victims.
Deaves introduced Evan to the manager as "My father's secretary." "I'm
coming up in the world," thought Evan. Five crisp one-thousand-dollar
bills were produced, and Evan perceived strong curiosity in the bank
manager's eye. It had been agreed between Evan and Deaves that this
man was to be taken partly into their confidence, but Deaves now seemed
disposed to balk at it, and Evan ventured to take matters into his own
hands.
"You were going to tell this gentleman what the money was for."
"Yes, yes, of course," said Deaves nervously. "You will of course
appreciate the necessity of absolute secrecy, sir."
"That is part of my business," said the manager.
But Deaves still boggled at the horrid word, and it was Evan who said:
"Somebody is trying to blackmail Mr. Deaves."
"Good gracious!" cried the horrified manager. "Mr. Simeon Deaves or
Mr. George Deaves?"
"Either," said Evan dryly. "They don't care as long as they get the
money."
"Have you notified the police?"
"Not yet. We're going to take a try first at catching them ourselves.
There is one of them outside, the thin youth in the grey suit."
The manager half arose from his chair. "What! So close! Perhaps he's
armed!"
"He can't see us."
The manager sank back only partly reassured. "Can I be of any
assistance?" he asked.
"Yes," said Evan. "I want to mark these bills in your presence."
Deaves handed them over, and the manager supplied a blue pencil. "See!
A tiny dot following the serial number in each case. In case they get
the money, and get away in spite of me, will you please see that all
the banks in town are supplied with the numbers of these bills, and are
instructed to have anyone arrested who presents them to be changed?"
"I certainly will," said the manager, making a note of the numbers.
They left a much startled banker peering through his window-screen.
The public library was but a few blocks from the bank. George Deaves
wished to take a taxicab, but Evan advised against it. Their little
grey shadow followed them to the door of the great building but did not
enter. Having satisfied themselves of this, they got in touch with one
of the assistant librarians, and put their case up to him.
The magic name of Deaves acted like a talisman. The plan was carefully
laid. George Deaves proceeded to the reading-room and, calling for
Lockhart's "History of the Crimean War," retired to a corner and placed
the bills between the leaves as specified. The books were then
returned to the desk, and Deaves with the connivance of the librarian
was spirited out of the building by the delivery entrance. This was to
prevent the watcher outside from remarking that, whereas two entered,
only one came out. When neither returned he would naturally suppose
that both had slipped past him.
Meanwhile Evan waited in the librarian's private office, arrangements
having been made to notify him by phone when the books were called for
again. They would hold up the books at the delivery desk long enough
to allow Evan to reach the reading-room. It was a long wait. The
librarian offered him books, but he could not apply his mind.
"You're sure there's no chance of a slip-up among so many clerks?" he
said anxiously. "One may forget."
"We're not trusting to their memories. The librarian in charge of
delivery is a friend of mine. Lockhart's History is in his desk, and
in its place on the shelf is pinned a ticket, 'apply to the librarian.'"
At last the message came over the phone: "Lockhart's 'History of the
Crimean War' called for from seat 433."
Evan's heart accelerated its pace a little. "Whereabouts in the room
is that seat?"
"The last table in the south end on the right-hand side."
"Ha! He wants to get in the corner! Can I get there without marching
down the whole length of the room?"
"Yes, you can approach from the other side through the American History
room."
Hastening through various corridors of the vast building, they found
themselves among the American History collections gathered in the
smaller room adjoining the great hall on the south. This room was
completely lined with books, and lighted by a skylight. It
communicated with the main reading-room by an arched opening.
Taking care not to show themselves in this opening, the librarian
described to Evan the exact location of seat 433 outside, and pointed
out a spot where Evan could command a view of seat 433 through the
archway. Evan proceeded to the spot, and, taking down a book at
random, affected to be lost in studying its pages. Then, half turning
and letting his eyes rise carelessly, he glanced into the great room.
It took him an instant or two to focus his eyes. The line of tables
seemed endless, the hundreds of figures reading, scribbling or snoozing
seemed indistinguishable from one another. Then Evan remembered the
librarian had said: "433 is the fourth seat from the passageway between
the tables; the person sitting there will have his back to you."
Evan's eyes found the spot: he saw a familiar pair of thin, high
shoulders under a grey coat.
His first feeling was one of surprise. Somehow he had not expected one
so young and insignificant to be given so important a part in the game.
For a moment he wondered if the strange-eyed, wary little youth could
be their sole antagonist. That would indeed be a humorous situation.
But he did not believe it possible. Certainly the letter had been
written by one older and more experienced.
Evan remained where he was, making believe to be absorbed in his book,
and letting his eyes rise from time to time as if in contemplation. He
was about sixty feet from the youth in an oblique line. Once the
little fellow looked around, but Evan saw the beginning of the movement
and was deep in study in plenty of time. The sober background of
filled bookshelves afforded Evan good protective colouring. Across the
smaller room the librarian was likewise affecting to be reading, while
he nervously watched Evan and awaited the outcome.
Finally Evan perceived the library attendant coming down the long room
bearing the two big volumes in their faded purple calf binding. He
speculated whimsically on what a sensation would be caused should he
drop one and a thousand-dollar bill flutter out. But library
attendants know better than to drop books.
He laid the books on the table beside the youth, and went back. The
grey-clad one, with another casual, sharp glance around him, took up
volume one, the thicker of the two, and, slouching down in his chair,
stood the tall, open book on his lap in such a way that no one either
in front or behind him could see exactly what he was doing. "Not badly
managed," thought Evan. Evan could only guess that he was turning to
the specified pages and slipping out the bills. There was one action
that Evan recognised from the movement of the shoulders. He had
slipped his hand in his inner breast pocket.
"He's got them now," thought Evan.
Sure enough the youth presently let the book fall on the table and
wiped his face with his handkerchief.
"I bet his little heart is beating," thought Evan. Evan's was.
The youth wasted no further time in making believe to read his books.
Letting them lie on the table he got up and started to walk out at a
leisurely pace. Evan followed him, knowing of course that the first
time the youth turned his head he must discover him, but it did not
matter much now. Their footsteps fell noiselessly on the thick rubber
matting of the reading-room.
Half-way down the great room the youth did turn, and saw Evan behind
him. A spasm passed over the thin little face and his teeth showed
momentarily. One could fancy how sharply he caught his breath. He
increased his pace a little, but by no means ran out of the room. He
had his nerves under pretty good control. Evan made no effort to
overtake him in the reading-room. He hated to make an uproar there.
The youth went soberly down the two flights of the great stairway with
Evan as soberly at his heels. He did not look around again. To have
refrained from doing so indicated no little strength of will. Crossing
the entrance hall, they passed out the main entrance and down the
sweeping steps to Fifth Avenue.
"He'll make a break to escape in the crowd," thought Evan.
On the little esplanade between the two flights of steps Evan sprang
across the space that separated them and laid a heavy hand on the
youth's shoulder.
He shrank away with a terrified gasp. "What do you want?" he demanded.
"You come with me," said Evan, sternly.
"I won't! You've no right to lay hands on me!"
"You come along," said Evan, "or I'll call the policeman yonder."
He marched him down the remaining steps. The boy offered no
resistance. For that matter he would have stood but a small chance
against the muscular Evan. The passers-by began to stop and stare and
shove and ask what was the matter.
Evan greatly desired to avoid a street disturbance. Steering his
captive across the pavement to the curb, he hailed the first passing
taxicab and bundled the unresisting youth inside. In low tones he
ordered the chauffeur to drive to the nearest police station. It was
all over in half a minute. They left the curiosity seekers goggling
from the pavement.
During the drive the two exchanged no word. The youth shrank back in
his corner, staring straight ahead of him out of his pale and
impenetrable mask. Occasionally he moistened his lips. Clearly he was
terrified, but a determined spirit held him to the line he had chosen.
Evan made no attempt to search him for the money, for he wished to have
a witness present when the marked bills were taken from him. But he
watched him throughout with lynx eyes, prepared to forestall any
attempt to make away with the bills.
Arriving at the station house the chauffeur, full of curiosity, was for
helping Evan take his prisoner in. But Evan paid him off and told him
he needn't wait. The man lingered, joining the little crowd that
always hangs around the station house steps when a prisoner is brought
in.
By this time the youth seemed to have recovered from the worst of his
fears. He went up the steps quite willingly in front of Evan. Within,
a bored and lordly police lieutenant sat enthroned at his high desk.
Evan, who had been holding himself in all this time, burst out:
"This man is a blackmailer. I want you to search him. You'll find the
money he extorted in the inside breast pocket of his coat. The bills
are marked."
The Lieutenant declined to become excited. Such dramatic entrances
were part of his daily routine. "Hold on a minute," he said, opening
his book. "Proceed in order." He addressed the prisoner: "What is
your name?"
"I decline to give it," said the youth--his voice was breathless but
determined still. "I have done nothing wrong. This man suddenly
seized me on the street. I think he's crazy. Search me. If you find
anything, then let him make a charge."
The Lieutenant spoke to a patrolman across the room: "Ratigan, search
him."
The youth spread his arms wide to facilitate the search. Evan, taken
aback by his assurance, waited the result anxiously. The patrolman
thrust his hand in his breast pocket.
"Nothing here," he said indifferently.
Evan's heart sank. "Are you sure?" he said.
"Look for yourself if you want."
"Search him thoroughly," commanded the Lieutenant.
But Evan already guessed that he had been tricked.
No money was found except a dollar bill and some change.
"Is this it?" asked the patrolman solemnly.
The youth smiled.
Evan waved it away.
"Well, what are the circumstances?" asked the Lieutenant. "Will you
make a charge?"
"I've been fooled!" Evan said bitterly. Suddenly a light broke on him;
he struck his forehead. "I see it now! This man's job was simply to
lead me away while another came and got the money!"
"Well, will you make a charge?"
Evan quickly reflected. There was not much use airing the case in
court if the principal evidence was gone. "Let him go," he said.
"He's not the one I want."
Without more ado Evan hastened out. The youth presumably was allowed
to follow. The taxicab was at the curb. Evan flung himself in.
"Back to the library!" he ordered.
He sought out his friend the librarian. A hasty investigation showed
that Lockhart's History had been collected in due course from the table
and returned to the shelves. It had not been called for since. The
money was gone, of course.
"His confederate was waiting there in the reading-room, perhaps at the
same table," Evan said gloomily. "As soon as I was out of the way he
got the money. What a fool I was!"
"But how could you have foreseen that?" said the librarian.
Evan then had the pleasant task of returning to the Deaves house and
telling them what had happened. Father and son were waiting for him in
the library. They instantly saw by his face that things had not gone
well, and each snarled according to his nature. When he heard that the
money was gone the old man broke into piteous lamentations.
"Five thousand dollars! Five thousand dollars! All that money! Flung
to the rats of the city to gnaw!"
"What's the matter with you?" snapped his son. "It was my money."
"I earned it, didn't I? You have nothing but what I gave you!"
"We may get them yet through the banks," suggested Evan.
"Yah! We'll never get them now!"
But however they might quarrel with each other, father and son united
in blaming Evan.
"Look at him!" cried the old man, beside himself. "He knows where the
money's gone! Of course he didn't catch them. I believe he engineered
the whole thing!"
"Be quiet, Papa," said George Deaves in a panic. He turned to Evan
with an anxiety almost obsequious. "Don't mind him," he said. "He's
excited. You'd better go now. But I'll see you later."
Evan was not deceived. It was clear that George no less than his
father believed that he was a party to the crime, but was afraid to say
so outright.
"I live at 45A South Washington Square," he said curtly. "You'll find
me there any time you want me."