THE JEHU ADDS TO THE MYSTERY
It gave Eric Darrell a strange feeling to hear Joe talk in the vein he
did.
Of all men on earth—or women either—he despised a hypocrite.
Could he believe Joe sincere in what he said about deceit, when such a
load of suspicion was resting over his own head?
Eric was badly rattled.
He believed and yet doubted.
Something must soon come up to decide the question one way or another.
On the way to his rooms, where Joe was to put him down, the latter fell
asleep in the corner, so no words passed between them.
When the hack came to a stop Joe woke up. “Hello here, where are we?”
“At my den;” and Eric got out as the driver opened the door.
“Then I can have another nap before I reach my home.”
“Good night, Joe.”
“Don’t forget to-morrow morning, Eric.”
“I shan’t, you may depend upon it.”
As a sudden thought flashed through his mind he turned and looked at the
driver.
Surely this was not the same man who had driven Joe from the _bal
masque_.
The detective did not remember the number of the other vehicle, but had
seen the man—both wore the regulation tall stove-pipe hat, without which
no cabby is ever seen in New York, if he has any respect for himself, but
there was a decided difference in the height of the men.
This again puzzled Eric.
“What is your name, driver?” he asked, as the other was about to mount
his box.
“John Mulligan, sor.”
“German, of course?” smiling.
“Yis, sor, direct from Cork.”
“Where can you be found in the morning about ten o’clock?”
The man gave his stand.
“Then consider yourself engaged by myself from ten to twelve, and wait
for me.”
“All right, sor.”
The hack rattled down the street.
Darrell looked after it and shook his head—he did not know really what to
think.
In all the strange cases he had handled in the past, he could not
remember one which had presented such a confusing front as this.
It faced both ways.
He was not yet ready to believe either side until stronger proofs were
presented.
At any rate another day would surely develop new features bearing on the
case, and from these he would be able to get conclusions.
He retired at a quarter to three.
It was his intention to rise at eight, and when he jumped out of bed the
clock lacked but a few minutes of the hour.
Before nine he had breakfasted in a neighboring cafe.
The other inmates of the bachelor apartment house had no idea of the
occupation the detective followed.
He was a quiet fellow and did not seek acquaintances—besides, in New
York, people get acquainted only through regular channels—two families
might live next door for several years and their ways and hours are so
different that the members hardly know their neighbors by sight.
It was now getting on toward the time when he ought to be up town.
He ran down to his office first, and blossomed out as a first-class
masher, of the type who frequent the matinees—real lady killers.
Then he next made his way up town on the elevated road, and got off at
Eighty-ninth Street.
In a short time he was in the drug store near the home of the Leslies.
The proprietor was talkative and friendly.
It was just three minutes of ten when a gentleman passed along the
pavement in the direction of the house under surveillance.
He turned and came into the drug store ostensibly to buy a cigar, but in
reality, as the detective guessed, to pass the time.
Just as the clock was about striking he hurried out and was soon mounting
the steps leading to the Leslie mansion.
Eric shrugged his shoulders.
“There’s no accounting for tastes,” he muttered.
“Yes,” laughed the druggist, “he picked out the poorest weed in the box.”
But Darrell was thinking of something else. He had in mind the stalwart
figure and pleasing face of Joe Leslie.
Between the two he saw no choice.
Still, this man was in a way distinguished by his poetical appearance—his
face was smooth, all but a wavy mustache, and he wore his hair down upon
his shoulders.
Eric spent some time talking to the druggist, but he kept watch upon the
Leslie domicile. At eleven the stranger came out. He was given egress
by Mrs. Leslie, and Darrell was put in mind of the photograph Joe had
shown him.
His business now was to discover who this gentleman was.
He followed him to the elevated railroad, and went in the car next to
that which the man under surveillance entered.
Thus, at about eleven twenty-three, he followed the other along
Twenty-third Street and saw him enter a certain building among the
handsome stores.
Still pursuing his man, carefully keeping him under his eye, he watched
until the other had entered a room on the top floor.
There was a door-plate in sight.
Going closer the detective read:
“Paul Prescott—Artist.”
He knew the name—the owner had quite a reputation as a painter, but Eric
had never as yet heard of him as a lady killer.
His next work was to get some information concerning Mr. Prescott.
There were other offices below, and entering one which seemed to be that
of an ivory carver, he introduced the subject by saying that he had
occasion to make use of an artist at his home, and wished to make certain
inquiries concerning the gentleman above.
“I do not like to say anything,” remarked the ivory carver.
“Oh, I’m not going to ask about his work—that stands on its own
merits—but as he would have to be a member of my family for a time if he
undertook the job, I would like to know if he is a perfect gentleman.”
“I have no occasion to believe otherwise.”
“Married?”
“N—no.”
“You seem to hesitate—am I to infer that you have any reason to believe
otherwise?”
“I used to think he was, but of late he told me he was a widower.”
“Oh, that’s it. I suppose he has lots of people visit his studio?”
“Quite a number.”
“Ladies and gentlemen?”
“Ladies particularly—he’s very fond of the gentle sex, and they quite
make a hero of him.”
Darrell smiled.
He had seen stage favorites whom the silly women of New York were wont to
rave over, and knew just how foolishly they could act.
Thank heaven all women are not alike, and yet their weak points are more
or less developed in the whole sex, as with men.
He sighed as he thought of it, and then he turned again, loyal to the
resolve he had made not to condemn Lillian without the most absolute
proof.
As he left the building he remembered the hack driver.
Could he reach his stand before twelve?
He started off—a street car assisted him up Sixth Avenue, and he arrived
just five minutes before the noon hour.
John was there.
He had the same horses as on the previous night, and showed no marks of
his late hours.
At sight of the detective he made no sign of recognition, which was quite
natural, for the latter’s disguise was complete.
“Hello, John, I want your vehicle,” Eric said.
“I’m engaged just now, sor.”
“Yes, warming your heels. John, I’m the gentleman who engaged you last
night.”
The man made a peculiar face.
“Tell that till the marines, sor. Ain’t I got eyes—phat good are they if
I don’t see?”
“Well, they’re no good if they can’t see that—five dollars, pay for the
two hours you’ve waited.”
The man looked at the bill and took it. “Faith an’ now I know ye’re the
gentlemon,” he said with a leer.
It is strange yet true that such a man can always see better with a bank
bill over his eyes. “Did my friend Leslie get home all right?”
“Yes, sor.”
“Anybody waiting up for him?” carelessly.
“His wife I reckon, sor—leastways she let him in directly the kerriage
stopped.”
This was a point for the detective.
He made a note of it.
“Have you driven for Mr. Leslie before?”
“Several times, sor.”
“Fine fellow.”
“That’s where yees are correct—he’s a man I could do lots for.”
This was not flattery—the true ring could be detected in such praise—it
came from the heart.
“How did it come he had another driver earlier in the night?”
“Him—Mr. Joseph Leslie—sure I took him from his house and brought him
back and divil another driver did he have at all. Phat are yees drivin’
at? I dunno!”
“I made a mistake, John—I see it now.”
To himself, however, this hunter of men was saying:
“Probably Joe has bought this fellow up, body and soul—that would account
for his desire to serve him.”
Nothing could be more easily done, for the man looked like one who would
be faithful.
If this were the case it would be love’s labor lost to attempt to get any
intelligence out of such a man.
Still, Eric Darrell prided himself on his manner of cross questioning,
and he began to work the jehu in a manner that was novel to say the
least.
Thus he found that to all appearances John had driven down town, and
taken the gentleman to several places besides the apartment house where
he held forth.
Altogether they had visited three houses where games of chance were going
on but there was so much trouble effecting an entrance to these places
that it had consumed much time.
If this were true it would make the puzzle darker than ever.
The question was, could John be trusted?
He had to watch the man keenly in order to read him at all.
An Irishman can dissemble about as well as the next one, and this jehu
was a particularly bright boy, from the “ould dart.”
“Did you meet any one you knew about a quarter of twelve?” asked the
detective.
“Did I—yes, it was just striking the midnight hour when I spoke to Mike
Crotty, the night police at the corner av Broadway and Worth Street.”
“I know him—what remarks passed?”
“We both spoke av the bells—and Mike towld me about a dancing in the
moonlight he saw wanst in ould Ireland, when the fairies came out to
howld their only ball—it was at this hour he seen it and lost his mind.
Whin he found it again the beastly work had stopped and the fairies were
gone.”
“Well, I guess it’s too late for me to do what I meant to. I won’t need
you to-day, John. Sometime I may want your help.”
With these words Eric Darrell coolly turned and walked away. The
Irishman looked after him quizzically.
“He’s an odd genius, but, d’ye know, I rather like the man. Just as if I
don’t know where he’s gone. Hope he finds Mike Crotty on deck this fine
day.”