THE OPIUM JOINT
Eric Darrell watched the man whom he had thus met on the platform of the
elevated station. He wondered what magical power Paul Prescott possessed
over Joe Leslie’s wife.
The man was odd looking, as a genius is ever supposed to be, but there
was nothing about him to indicate that he might be a masher or a
heart-breaker.
Darrell looked him over, taking a mental measurement of the man, as he
had a dim idea the time might be near at hand when they would be on
opposite sides.
The other left the train. Darrell followed him.
Presently he saw a woman join the artist and hand him a note, which he
seemed to read with great eagerness, then he hurried off.
The keen eyes of the detective had noted something of extreme importance.
When Prescott believed he put the note away in his pocket, in reality it
fluttered down to the pavement as he hastened away.
In just five seconds by the watch it was in the possession of Eric
Darrell.
He then continued on his way to his rooms.
Reaching his den he changed his appearance, and appeared in his natural
figure. Then he took out the paper just found and eagerly scrutinized
it; not that he was particularly interested in the secrets of Paul
Prescott, but the artist had crossed his path, and hence all that he did
should be scrutinized.
As he suspected, the writing was in a lady’s chirography—so many ladies
write alike, as though taught by a certain school, that individuality is
lost.
This is what the detective read, and it opened his eyes in an astonishing
manner:
“My beloved Paul—I consent at last to your proposition—in flight
alone we can be safe. I shall be ready when you come to take me.
_He_ will be like a tiger let loose—I know his passion. I believe he
would have killed me ere now had he suspected our secret. Carry out
your plan—I understand, and am willing to fly from an uncongenial
home to the one you will make for me.
With love, your own
L.”
That was all. Heaven knows it was enough. Darrell let the paper drop on
the table with a sharp cry of pain.
“Poor Joe! poor honest old Joe! You thought you were deceiving your wife
past forgiveness because you chose to smoke a pipe in secret, and here
she conspires to leave you in the lurch. Joe is the ogre referred to,
savage as a tiger. Woman—well, I’ll be hanged if I want to know her
sister after all. I never was so deceived in all my life. It is a
shame—an accursed shame, and that villain shall pay dearly for it all.”
Then he examined the note again, endeavoring to read between the lines.
His indignation grew apace.
Joe had proven himself pure gold, and he had more confidence in him than
ever, but there was something here that needed investigation, and the
case looked black for Lillian.
The note was signed with an L.
However, Darrell, always cautious, was not ready to condemn without a
hearing—what he had already seen this night taught him the fallacy of
circumstantial evidence.
First of all he must secure a scrap of Mrs. Leslie’s handwriting and
compare it with that which he held in his hand.
That could be done in the morning he had no doubt—it would not prove a
formidable task to one of his executive ability.
There was an ugly look about the business he did not like, and he was
anxious to be at the truth.
About eight o’clock, having had his supper, and made certain inquiries
that put him into possession of facts he desired to know, Darrell found
himself watching for Paul Prescott at the lodgings of the artist.
It was the desire of the detective to acquaint himself with some of the
customs of the man whom he meant to investigate.
This was always his plan when engaged in such a business—he found it paid
to size a man up and see what his habits were.
When a man was suspected of being a forger, or a check raiser, or a
defaulter, Darrell’s very first action was to discover who his usual
companions were, where he passed his leisure time, and whether he was
addicted to little vices. His secret character always told the story.
A young man might be a Sunday-school teacher, and apparently as straight
as a die to all outward appearances, but if Darrell on tracking him found
that he secretly frequented gambling houses he knew he had his man.
What does it avail if the outside of the peach is fair to gaze upon when
all is rotten below?
So he now desired to learn what this peculiar looking artist really was.
He had a good reputation among people generally, but then this counted as
little.
Much dross might be taken for pure gold did not the assayer apply his
tests.
That was what Darrell did—looked into each man’s private character,
unknown to the individual under the scrutiny.
He seemed to take it for granted that the artist would come out, and in
this he appeared to make no mistake. Sure enough Prescott appeared.
He was evidently off for the evening, but did not dress as though he
meant to spend it in fashionable society.
Darrell followed him to a certain club where artists were wont to
congregate, and here the other seemed quite a favorite.
At half-past eleven Prescott left this place. He did not head toward
home.
On the contrary he seemed ill at ease, and looked around him once or
twice as though he were afraid lest some of his fellows at the club
should be near.
This action in itself was suspicious to Eric—it indicated that the artist
had certain habits which he desired to keep a secret even from those who
would have thought the least of it.
Darrell’s curiosity was at once aroused.
He realized that now the game would probably be worth the hunting.
At any rate, since the opportunity was now given him, he was determined
to learn more about the artist than he had known before.
Paul Prescott headed down town, boarding a Third Avenue street car near
Fourteenth Street. On the same car, out in front, stood Eric, enjoying
the bracing night air.
He could see without being seen, and managed to keep an eye on the
artist. When he saw the other finally rise he knew he was about to leave
the car, and the detective forestalled him.
Once on the pavement he waited for his man and then shadowed him.
Darrell was not greatly surprised at what he learned—the place he entered
was an opium joint, kept by a Chinaman and an American in partnership,
probably the largest about town. Here a good class of customers were
wont to resort, and among others several actors, a doctor, a well known
jurist, a writer, together with several women, whose attire and jewelry
proved them to belong to the upper circle.
Many a man’s history received a downward impetus dating from the hour he
first entered this den of iniquity.
Darrell knew it well.
He had been in it a number of times in the course of the last year—those
whom he hunted had come here.
A clerk had robbed his employer for money to pay the opium fiend—once the
habit gains full sway and the victim will do anything on earth in order
to get money to pay for a few pipes and an hour of the peculiar drunken
fancy.
Knowing the ropes was of assistance to the detective now.
He went in, and assuming the eager, trembling manner of an habitue
demanded a bunk and a pipe. All the while he used his eyes.
The room was supplied with lounges and settees—the usual bunks were in
another apartment where the Chinese and cheaper grade of smokers could
indulge their pet vice for a smaller sum.
This place was furnished with something of Oriental splendor, and the
detective could not but admire the barbaric taste of the proprietor.
The couches spread around were soft and inviting, Turkish in their
make—some had curtains partly drawn, so that the occupant was half
screened.
Three of these were occupied by women. This was no uncommon sight.
That two of them wore veils was evidence that they had not yet been
hardened by the drug; but all this would come in time.
The third had thrown her veil back, and her set face could be seen, the
eyes staring into vacancy, as though sightless.
Wretched sinners that they were, drawn onward by the inexorable god at
whose altar they worshiped, there was no escape for them—just ahead lay
the black gulf of despair, toward which they were hurrying so rapidly,
and soon it must close over them.
Then—eternity!
Darrell never entered here without a feeling of commiseration for the
poor souls thus linked with the skeleton arms of death.
Had the opportunity ever offered he would gladly have tried to save one
or more of them; but he was well aware what a difficult and well nigh
impossible task it is to endeavor to save a man against himself.
Luckily Eric possessed a peculiar disposition—what little opium he smoked
had no effect on him, and he had no longing for the drug as the
generality have.
On the contrary it almost nauseated him, and he could only have become an
habitual opium fiend by long and persistent practice.
He glanced around to see where the artist had deposited his frame, and
discovered Prescott on the couch next the second veiled lady.
Whether this was accident or design the detective was unable to decide as
yet, but he had an idea and steadily nursed it.
His feeling of mingled disgust and pity was greatest for these women—he
knew the one whose face he saw was a well-to-do widow up on Lexington
Avenue, and perhaps the others were friends who had come here first in a
spirit of bravado and daring curiosity, perhaps upon a wager, and whom
the fascination of the drug had already chained to the chariot wheels of
the ogre Opium. Those wheels revolved slowly but remorselessly—sooner or
later they would crush out the life of all who clung to them.
Had Prescott anything in common with this rich and brazen widow and her
friends?
That he knew the former Darrell had already guessed, for her set
expression had momentarily changed at sight of the man, and the detective
caught a look of deep cunning, which was returned with a smile and a nod
from the man.
Eager to learn all he could of the artist’s private character, the
detective determined to watch for all he was worth.
He was also ready to find out who the two veiled women were, who set
aside all modesty and came to this public opium joint because they could
not properly prepare and enjoy the drug at their homes.
At a certain hour no doubt a closed carriage would be waiting to convey
them all home—perhaps the dashing widow had some male friend present who
would serve as an escort.
Prescott received his pipe, prepared his pill and was soon smoking
quietly.
Silence rested upon the place—people came not here to converse, but to
dream with open eyes, seeing the beautiful things that danced before
their eyes like a bright _ignis fatuus_, always eluding their grasp, yet
luring them deeper and deeper into the toils.