I Unmask My Enemy
Tired Nature asserted herself and took the full twelve hours. But I
felt like another man when I left the house next morning, and I was
eager to grapple anew with the mystery. I found two reports awaiting
me at the office: Mr. Royce had passed a good night and was better;
the clerks who had spent the afternoon before in visiting the stables
had as yet discovered nothing, and were continuing their search.
I looked up a time-card of the Long Island Railroad, and found that
Miss Holladay's coachman could not reach the city until 9.30. So I put
on my hat again, sought a secluded table at Wallack's, and over a
cigar and stein of bock, drew up a résumé of the case--to clear the
atmosphere, as it were. It ran something like this:
March 13, Thursday--Holladay found murdered; daughter
drives to Washington Square.
March 14, Friday--Coroner's inquest; Miss Holladay
released; mysterious note received.
March 16, Sunday--Holladay buried.
March 18, Tuesday--Will opened and probated.
March 28, Friday--Miss Holladay returns from drive,
bringing new maid with her and discharges old one.
March 29, Saturday--Gives orders to open summer house.
April 1, Tuesday--Asks for $100,000.
April 2, Wednesday--Gets it.
April 3, Thursday--Leaves home, ostensibly for Belair,
in company with new maid.
April 14, Monday--Butler reports her disappearance;
Royce taken ill; I begin my search.
There I stopped. The last entry brought me up to date--there was
nothing more to add. But it seemed impossible that all the
developments of this mystery should have taken only a month. For
years, as it seemed to me, I had thought of nothing else.
I looked over the schedule again carefully. There was only one opening
that I could see where it was possible to begin work with the hope of
accomplishing anything. That was in the very first entry. Miss
Holladay had driven to Washington Square; she had, I felt certain,
visited her sister; I must discover the lodging of this woman. Perhaps
I should also discover Frances Holladay there. In any event, I should
have a new point to work from.
The police had been over the ground, I knew; they had exhausted every
resource in the effort to locate Mr. Holladay's mysterious visitor,
and had found not a trace of her. But that fact did not discourage me;
for I hoped to start my search with information which the police had
not possessed. Brooks, the coachman, should be able to tell me----
Recalled suddenly to remembrance of him, I looked at my watch and saw
that it was past his hour. I was pleased to find him awaiting me when
I opened the office door three minutes later. I had only a few
questions to ask him.
"When your mistress left the carriage the day you drove her to
Washington Square, did you notice which street she took after she left
the square?"
"Yes, sir; she went on down West Broadway."
"On which side?"
"Th' left-hand side, sir; th' east side."
"She must have crossed the street to get to that side."
"Yes, sir; she did. I noticed pertic'lar, for I thought it funny she
shouldn't 've let me drive her on down th' street to wherever she was
goin'. It's a dirty place along there, sir."
"Yes, I know. When you drove her out on the 28th--the day she brought
back the maid--where did she go?"
"To Washington Square again, sir."
"And left you waiting for her?"
"Yes, sir; just th' same."
"And went down the same street?"
"Yes, sir; crossed to th' east side just th' same as th' time before."
"How long was she gone?"
"Over an hour, sir; an hour an' a half, I should say."
"Did you notice anything unusual in her appearance when she came
back?"
"No, sir; she was wearin' a heavy veil. She had th' other woman with
her, an' she just said 'Home!' in a kind o' hoarse voice, as I helped
them into th' carriage."
That was all that he could tell me, and yet I felt that it would help
me greatly. In the first place, it narrowed my investigations to the
district lying to the east of West Broadway, and I knew that the
French quarter extended only a block or two in that direction. And
again, it gave me a point to insist on in my inquiries--I knew the
date upon which the mysterious woman had left her lodging. Or, at
least, I knew that it must be one of two dates. The lodging had been
vacated, then, either on the twenty-eighth of March or the third of
April. As a last resource, I had the photograph. I was ready to begin
my search, and dismissed Brooks, warning him to say nothing to anyone
about the mystery.
As I passed out the door to the pavement, I happened to glance across
the way, and there, in the crowd of brokers which always lines the
street, I perceived Martigny. He was listening intently to one of the
brokers, who was talking earnestly in his ear--telling him how to make
his fortune, I suppose--and did not see me. For an instant, I was
tempted to cross to him, and get him out of danger. Then I smiled at
the absurdity of the thought. It would take a clever man to fleece
Martigny, and I recalled his strong face, his masterful air--he was no
fool, no lamb ready for the shears. He was perfectly able to look out
for himself--to wield the shears with power and effect, if need be.
I turned west toward Broadway, still, I suppose, thinking of him
subconsciously: for a few moments later, some irresistible impulse
caused me to glance around. And there he was, walking after me, on the
opposite side of the street! Then, in a flash, I understood. He was
following me!
It is difficult to describe the shock that ran through me, that left
me numbed and helpless. For an instant, I stumbled on, half-dazed;
then, gradually, my self-control came back, and with it a certain
fierce joy, a hot exultation. Here, at last, was something definite,
tangible, a clew ready to my hand, if only I were clever enough to
follow it up; a ray of light in the darkness! I could feel my cheeks
burning, and my heart leaping at the thought!
But what had been his part in the affair? For a moment, I groped
blindly in the dark, but only for a moment. Whatever his share in the
tragedy, he had plainly been left behind to watch us; to make sure
that we did not follow the fugitives; to warn them in case of danger.
I understood, now, his solicitude for Miss Holladay--"in her I take
such an interest!" It was important that he should know the moment we
discovered her absence. And he had known; he knew that I was even at
this moment commencing the search for her. My cheeks reddened at the
thought of my indiscreetness; yet he was a man to command confidence.
Who would have suspected him? And an old proverb which he had repeated
one evening, flashed through my mind:
"Folle est la brebis qui au loup se confesse."
"Silly is the sheep who to the wolf herself confesses," I had
translated it, with that painful literalness characteristic of the
beginner. Well, I had been the sheep, and silly enough, Heaven knows!
I had reached Broadway, and at the corner I paused to look at a
display of men's furnishings in a window. Far down the street, on the
other side, almost lost in the hurrying crowd, Martigny was buying a
paper of a newsboy. He shook it out and looked quickly up and down its
columns, like a man who is searching for some special item of news.
Perhaps he _was_ a speculator; perhaps, after all, I was deceiving
myself in imagining that he was following me. I had no proof of it; it
was the most natural thing in the world that he should be in this part
of the town. I must test the theory before accepting it. It was time I
grew wary of theories.
I entered the store, and spent ten minutes looking at some neckties.
When I came out again, Martigny was just getting down from a
bootblack's chair across the street. His back was toward me, and I
watched him get out his little purse and drop a dime into the
bootblack's hand. I went on up Broadway, loitering sometimes,
sometimes walking straight ahead; always, away behind me, lost in the
crowd, was my pursuer. It could no longer be doubted. He was really
following me, though he did it so adroitly, with such consummate
cunning, that I should never have seen him, never have suspected him,
but for that fortunate intuition at the start.
A hundred plans flashed through my brain. I had this advantage: he
could not know that I suspected him. If I could only overmaster him in
cunning, wrest his secret from him--and then, as I remembered the
strong face, the piercing eyes, the perfect self-control, I realized
how little possible it was that I could accomplish this. He was my
superior in diplomacy and deceit; he would not pause, now, at any
means to assure the success of his plot.
Yes, I could doubt no longer that there was a plot, whose depths I
had not before even suspected; and I drew back from the thought with a
little shiver. What was the plot? What intricate, dreadful crime was
this which he was planning? The murder of the father, then, had been
only the first step. The abduction of Frances Holladay was the second.
What would the third be? How could we prevent his taking it? Suppose
we should be unsuccessful? And, candidly, what chance of success could
we have, fighting in the dark against this accomplished scoundrel? He
had the threads all in his fingers, he controlled the situation; we
were struggling blindly, snarled in a net of mystery from which there
seemed no escaping. My imagination clothed him with superhuman
attributes. For a moment a wild desire possessed me to turn upon him,
to confront him, to accuse him, to confound him with the very
certainty of my knowledge, to surprise his secret, to trample him
down!
But the frenzy passed. No, he must not discover that I suspected him;
I must not yield up that advantage. I might yet surprise him, mislead
him, set a trap for him, get him to say more than he wished to say.
That battle of wits would come later on--this very night, perhaps--but
for the moment, I could do nothing better than carry out my first
plan. Yet, he must not suspect the direction of my search--I must
throw him off the track. Why, this was, for all the world, just like
the penny-dreadfuls of my boyhood--and I smiled at the thought that I
had become an actor in a drama fitted for a red-and-yellow cover!
My plan was soon made. I crossed Broadway and turned into Cortlandt,
sauntering along it until the Elevated loomed just ahead; I heard the
roar of an approaching train, and stopped to purchase some fruit at
the corner stand. My pursuer was some distance behind, closely
inspecting the bric-à-brac in a peddler's cart. The train rumbled
into the station, and, starting as though I had just perceived it, I
bounded up the stair, slammed my ticket into the chopper, and dived
across the platform. The guard at the rear of the train held the gate
open for me an instant, and then clanged it shut. We were off with a
jerk; as I looked back, I saw Martigny rush out upon the platform. He
stood staring after me for an instant; then, with a sudden grasping at
his breast, staggered and seemed to fall. A crowd closed about him,
the train whisked around a corner, and I could see no more.
But, at any rate, I was well free of him, and I got off at Bleecker
Street, walked on to the Square, and began my search. My plan was very
simple. Beginning on the east side of West Broadway, it was my
intention to stop at every house and inquire whether lodgers were
kept. My experience at the first place was a pretty fair sample of all
the rest.
A frowsy-headed woman answered my knock.
"You have rooms to let?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, monsieur," she answered, with an expansive grin. "Step zis
vay."
We mounted a dirty stair, and she threw open a door with a flourish
meant to be impressive.
"Zese are ze rooms, monsieur; zey are ver' fine."
I looked around them with simulated interest, smothering my disgust as
well as I could.
"How long have they been vacant?" I asked.
"Since only two days, monsieur; as you see, zey are ver' fine rooms."
That settled it. If they had been vacant only two days, I had no
further interest in them, and with some excuse I made my way out, glad
to escape from that fetid atmosphere of garlic and onions. So I went
from house to house; stumbling over dirty children; climbing grimy
stairs, catching glimpses of crowded sweat-shops; peering into all
sorts of holes called rooms by courtesy; inhaling a hundred stenches
in as many minutes; gaining an insight that sickened me into the
squalid life of the quarter. Sometimes I began to hope that at last I
was on the right track; but further inquiry would prove my mistake. So
the morning passed, and the afternoon. I had covered two blocks to no
purpose, and at last I turned eastward to Broadway, and took a car
downtown to the office. My assistants had reported again--they had met
with no better success than I. Mr. Graham noticed my dejected
appearance, and spoke a word of comfort.
"I think you're on the right track, Lester," he said. "But you can't
hope to do much by yourself--it's too big a job. Wouldn't it be better
to employ half a dozen private detectives, and put them under your
supervision? You could save yourself this nerve-trying work, and at
the same time get over the ground much more rapidly. Besides,
experienced men may be able to suggest something that you've
overlooked."
I had thought of that--I had wondered if I were making the best
possible use of my opportunities--and the suggestion tempted me. But
something rose within me--pride, ambition, stubbornness, what you
will--and I shook my head, determined to hang on. Besides, I had still
before me that battle of wits with Martigny, and I was resolved to
make the most of it.
"Let me keep on by myself a day or two longer, sir," I said. "I
believe I'll succeed yet. If I don't there will still be time to call
in outside help. I fancy I've made a beginning, and I want to see what
comes of it."
He shook me kindly by the hand.
"I like your grit," he said approvingly, "and I've every confidence in
you--it wasn't lack of confidence that prompted the suggestion. Only
don't overdo the thing, and break down as Royce has. He's better, by
the way, but the doctor says that he must take a long vacation--a
thorough rest."
"I'm glad he's better. I'll be careful," I assented, and left the
office.
While I waited for a car I bought a copy of the last edition of the
_Sun_--from force of habit, more than anything; then, settling myself
in a seat--still from force of habit--I turned to the financial column
and looked it over. There was nothing of special interest there, and I
turned back to the general news, glancing carelessly from item to
item. Suddenly one caught my eye which brought me up with a shock. The
item read:
Shortly after ten o'clock this morning, a man ran up
the steps of the Cortlandt Street station of the Sixth
Avenue Elevated, in the effort to catch an uptown train
just pulling out, and dropped over on the platform with
heart disease. An ambulance was called from the Hudson
Street Hospital and the man taken there. At noon, it
was said he would recover. He was still too weak to
talk, but among other things, a card of the Café
Jourdain, 54 West Houston Street, was found in his
pocket-book. An inquiry there developed the fact that
his name is Pierre Bethune, that he is recently from
France, and has no relatives in this country.
In a moment I was out of the car and running westward to the Elevated.
I felt that I held in my hand the address I needed.