THE HOUSE ON TWENTY-SEVENTH STREET
This was what might with considerable propriety be called a
_contretemps_.
If Joe Leslie recognized the writing as that of his wife, the game was
up.
He had no doubt had many letters from her during their courtship days,
and knew the style of the chirography well.
One thing favored Darrell.
Any one who has endeavored to write with gloves on will bear witness to
the fact that as a general rule they could not swear to their own hand
when cold.
So the chances were about ten to one that Joe could not recognize the
hand.
The detective was ready to accept the chances. He maintained his cool
demeanor through the emergency.
That was the result of education in his business. Raising his eyebrows
with an expression of surprise, he said:
“You don’t mean to say that house is yours, friend Joe?”
“That’s just what I do!”
The detective was looking for signs of suspicion about the other.
Surprise and curiosity he plainly saw, but it was not so easy to discover
the other.
“Come, now, what have you been looking up my house for?”
“On my honor, Joe, I’ve never set eyes on the building and don’t know
whether it’s stone or brick, three story or two.”
“Then what in the deuce—?”
“Patience! Is your house in the market?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps it is one of a number given me by a real estate agent to
look up for a friend of mine. I’ll preserve the slip,” taking it from
Joe and folding it up.
“It looks like a woman’s writing.”
“Yes, all writing does after a man has fallen into the habit of looking
for letters day by day—letters that are delayed—Come, you married men are
very suspicious.”
With that he dexterously whipped the subject around and began talking
about something of decided interest, so that Joe, completely hoodwinked,
speedily forgot about the singular little coincidence that had brought
this address under the eyes of the owner of the house.
He was not quite done with Joe yet.
“You must own a good deal of property in and around the city, Joe?”
“I do—property left to me by my mother.”
“You have no need to work.”
“Well, perhaps not. Some day when I take the notion I mean to figure up
my income from this property, and if it’s a good sum, by Jove! I’ll fling
business to the winds and take my little wife to Europe for a year—that
is, if—”
Darrell did not let him finish.
“Why, man alive, you talk as though you didn’t hardly know what property
you owned, yourself.”
“Neither do I—it’s all come to me since I married, and I’ve been so much
taken up with my wife that I haven’t found time to attend to it as I
should.”
Darrell winked hard.
He knew certain facts that would seem to indicate that Joe found time to
spend an hour every afternoon with some one besides Lillian. If so then
this was rank perjury.
What was he to think of a hypocrite?
“Jove! that’s a queer case. I don’t suppose your wife has any idea of
where your property lies—never saw such places as this Twenty-seventh
Street house, for instance?”
“Heavens! no. That house is an eyesore to me. The neighborhood is not a
good one and I will only let it to decent tenants. No, Lillian will
never know I own a house there.”
Darrell was satisfied.
He had made his point.
Soon after Joe bade him good evening, and hurried away.
It was not far from five o’clock.
Darrell snatched a disguise from a hook and changed his appearance in one
minute.
All he wanted was to effect such a change that Joe might not recognize
him.
Then he left the office and bolted down stairs after his friend.
Joe was discovered in the crowd, making his way toward the elevated
station, and knowing his destination Darrell arrived there first.
They got in the same car.
At this time in the evening it was pretty crowded and both had to stand
up.
At Twenty-seventh Street a number left the train and those we follow with
the rest.
Darrell observed Joe eagerly consult his watch.
“He’s late this evening and no doubt expects a scolding,” was his mental
comment upon seeing the frown upon Joe’s usually good-natured face.
The giant walked along so fast that Eric could hardly keep his place
behind him.
They approached the fatal number.
Truly Joe acted like a guilty wretch—he glanced up and down the street as
if to make sure no acquaintance was passing.
Deception was a novelty to him—this was the first time Darrell had ever
seen his friend acting in a mean role.
When they reached the steps Joe ascended them, took a key out of his
pocket and deliberately opened the front door.
The detective was passing at the time, but his quick glance failed to
reveal anything of interest.
Evening was coming on, and the shadows of the approaching night had
evidently gathered in the hall of the house—he could just see the glass
globe of the hanging gas jet in the hall, but it was not lighted.
For that matter there was no light about the house at all, though the
neighbors were beginning to illuminate their houses.
Passing down the street a little distance, Eric Darrell crossed over, and
came up the other side.
He now noticed that there was a light in the second story front room,
though almost ready to swear it had not been there previous to the
entrance of the proprietor.
The inside blinds were closed in such a way that Darrell could see
nothing.
He was deeply interested.
Whatever this strange mystery attached to Joe’s daily visit here might
mean, Darrell could not forget that the other was his friend.
He would act as a surgeon might when one whom he regarded highly was
brought before him for attention—his fingers would be very tender, but
the cruel knife must do its duty.
He was walking slowly along when he almost ran into a female who stood on
the edge of the pavement opposite the house.
Her black attire and the veil she wore attracted his attention
immediately.
Besides, she was looking upward toward the windows where the glimmer of
light could be seen.
A suspicion flashed into his mind.
He touched the arm of the lady in black. “Lillian—Mrs. Leslie,” he said
in a low voice. A cry came from under the veil.
“Who speaks to me?” gasped the lady.
“It is I—Eric Darrell. This is no place for a lady, especially at such
an hour. You may be insulted here.”
“But he is here—Joe, my husband, and where he is his wife should not be
afraid to go,” she said with some bitterness.
“Theoretically true, madam, but there are lots of places in this wicked
city where men daily pass and ladies dare not go. You promised to leave
this to me and you must keep your word. Take my arm and let me see you
to the elevated station.”
She might have rebelled, but there was a touch of gentle but firm
authority in his tone, and being a woman she yielded, knowing he was
right.
On the way to the elevated station she was silent, but finally, upon
reaching the steps, she turned to her companion.
“Mr. Darrell, does my husband know that I have sought your advice?”
So intensely interested was she in the answer, that she even held her
breath.
“To my knowledge, Mrs. Leslie, Joe does not even suspect you of ever
having seen me.”
“Thank heaven,” she almost gasped, a world of relief showing itself upon
her face, for, the better to look at her companion when expecting his
answer, she had brushed her veil aside.
“You need not borrow trouble on that score. Act naturally, as though you
suspected nothing and had no reason to evade his eye.”
She moved uneasily at his words.
Darrell had spoken them with a purpose, just as the surgeon probes for
the bullet before making any attempt to extract it.
He believed he had met with a certain share of success too.
“What did he want with you?” she asked, as if to cover her own confusion.
“Merely a matter of business.”
“Did he mention me?”
“He said I must come up and meet you sometime—whatever this may turn out,
Mrs. Leslie, I know Joe fairly worships you—never doubt that fact. Some
things seem hard to put together, but when the truth shines upon them
they will be found very simple.”
“Like Columbus and the egg, for example.”
“Yes, indeed. Now, if at any time you and I should meet in Joe’s
presence, don’t forget to treat me as a stranger.”
“I will not.”
“Then I shall say good evening, and as a last word, advise you to leave
this to me.”
“I shall, Mr. Darrell.”
She flitted up the station stairs and Darrell, with a long sigh, turned
down the street again.
Somehow the pretty wife of his friend quite fascinated him, and he found
himself wishing the sister would be like her.
Walking down the street, he soon reached his old stamping ground.
The light burned in the second story room and he believed Joe had not
left the house.
For perhaps ten minutes things went on this way.
Then the light suddenly vanished.
A minute later Joe Leslie came out.
Darrell listened intently to see if he spoke to any one at the door but a
wagon rattling by prevented his making sure.
Then Joe descended the steps and set briskly off for the elevated
station.
The detective did not follow him.
He desired to do a little work around that region, and knew Joe was bound
for home.
The house seemed to be dark and deserted, but others were in the same
condition, the shades being drawn and shutters closed.
New York people, many of them, act as though their houses were meant to
be dungeons, being hermetically sealed to shut out the light.
Darrell surveyed the building a few minutes, crossed over, looked at it
more closely, started up the steps, then shook his head negatively.
“Not yet—I’ll wait a little,” he muttered.
Glancing up and down the street he saw a small grocery store on the
corner.
People must eat, and these venders of daily provisions generally know
more about those who live in the neighborhood than any other class.
The gossip and small talk of the street passes current here, and the
proprietor hears all.
So Darrell made for the grocery.
It was not a very extensive establishment—the owner and his clerk were
not busy, and Darrell, picking out the former, asked:
“Can you tell me who lives at No—?”
The man looked at him with a smile.
“A young woman named Mrs. Lester, whose husband I believe is in
California—she was in here once or twice—quite a fine-looking lady,”
returned the groceryman.
“Thanks,” replied the detective, turning and leaving the store as
suddenly as he entered.
“Jacob, what number did he ask about?” said the proprietor, turning to
his clerk.
The boy gave it, at which the other whistled.
“That’s what they call a bull on me. I was five numbers out of the way.
But let it pass. He didn’t want to buy nothing.”
The blunder was destined to give Darrell trouble however.