I. O. U.
Ted Rodgers shut off his engine, sprang from the car and in ten strides
had gained the old negro's side.
"Stop a moment!" And at the stern command in his voice Oscar halted. "I
am convinced that you know more of Miss Susan Baird's death than you
have admitted, Oscar, and--" his voice deepened, "you are going to tell
me the truth."
Oscar cast a frightened glance upward. Rodgers' determined expression
was not one to encourage evasion.
"Suttenly, Sah, suttenly. Wha-what truf do yo' wish, Sah?" he
stammered, politeness uppermost in spite of his confusion of mind.
Rodgers' gaze grew in intensity as he studied the old man. The latter's
eyes had shifted from his interrogator to the mansion and his black
face had become mottled grey in color. As the silence lengthened,
Oscar's apprehension increased and his fingers fumbled nervously
with his cane. For the life of him he could think of nothing to say.
The sound of Rodgers' voice came as so vast a relief that at first he
failed to take in what he was saying.
"You testified at the inquest, Oscar," Rodgers stated slowly, "that
after serving a midday dinner on Sunday you left 'Rose Hill.' But you
did not tell Coroner Penfield that you returned here on Sunday night--"
"I didn't, Sah--fo' Gawd, I didn't!" Oscar raised a trembling hand. "I
only jes' passed along the street down yonder--"
"And what did you see?" demanded Rodgers, his eyes sparkling. His
chance shot in the dark had told.
Oscar's answer was slow in coming. Moving closer to Rodgers, he laid
one shaking hand, knotted from rheumatism, on his shoulder. The
gesture, half involuntary, held something pathetic in its mute appeal.
"Massa," he began, and his voice grew wistful. "Whose side is yo' on?
Is yo' fo' de police o' fo' Miss Kitty?"
Rodgers whitened as he met the old man's direct gaze. At last there was
no shifting in Oscar's eyes. Man to man they faced each other--master
and servant--each dominated with one desire: to serve one woman.
"I would give my life for Miss Kitty," Rodgers' deep voice carried
conviction.
"An' yo' won't let no harm come to her?"
"No." The reply rang out clearly. Oscar's harassed expression altered.
"Gawd bless yo', Sah!" He touched Rogers' hand reverently. "Ole Mandy
an' me, we's needed help de worst way. Hadn't nowhar to turn; now--" he
drew a long breath of relief. "Now yo' kin find Miss Kitty's red coat--"
"Miss Kitty's red coat?" echoed Rodgers, staring in astonishment at
Oscar. "What in the world--"
"Yessir." Oscar blinked rapidly. "Yo' 'member dat dar coat Miss Kitty
was so fond o' wearin'?--I heard yo' an' she argyfying 'bout it bein'
pink 'stead o' red."
"I know the one you mean," replied Rodgers impatiently. "Well, what
about it?"
"It's done gone!" Oscar raised his hand and dropped it in a gesture
indicative of despair. "An', Mister Rodgers, we's got ter find dat ar
coat fo' de police."
Rodgers stared at him for a full moment. There was no doubting Oscar's
sincerity. His face was beaded in perspiration and his eyes, twice
their normal size, were alight with earnest appeal.
"Please, Sah, don't ax me no mo' questions," he pleaded. "Jes' find
dat coat an' we'll know who killed ole Miss."
"Upon my word!" Rodgers shook a bewildered head. "What are you driving
at, Oscar?"
"Find dat coat, Sah, an' then yo'll know all. 'Deed, Massa, I ain't
lyin'." Oscar's voice shook with feeling. "Please, Sah, do as I ax.
It's fo' Miss Kitty."
"Very well." Rodgers came to a sudden decision. "I'll do my best to aid
Miss Kitty, even if I do it blindfolded. But, see here, Oscar, wouldn't
it be simpler to ask Miss Kitty for her coat?"
"She mustn't know nawthin'!" Oscar spoke in genuine alarm. "She--she
ain't had it fo' mos' some time--" His lips trembled a bit and he
touched them with the tips of his fingers. "The coat ain't with none o'
her clothes, 'cause I'se searched the house, Massa, an' Miss Kitty'll
be everlastin' grateful to yo'. But--" his voice dropped to a husky
whisper--"yo' git it befo' de police does."
Engrossed in their conversation, Rodgers had failed to note that Oscar
had gradually edged his way to the top step. With an agility which took
Rodgers completely by surprise the old negro whisked down the walk
which skirted the mansion and disappeared from sight.
With an oath Rodgers pursued him down the walk, only to reach the side
door and have it slammed in his face. Repeated knocking brought no
response, and after circling the mansion in the hope of finding an
entrance, if not a glimpse of Oscar, he finally returned to his car and
started for Washington much perturbed in mind.
On reaching Washington, Rodgers ran the car toward Pennsylvania Avenue,
stopping en route to purchase a can of Mobiloil. It did not take him
long to drive to a garage in an alley to the south of the Avenue. At
his hail the owner of the small shop came out.
"How'dy, Mr. Rodgers," he exclaimed, touching his soiled cap. "How's
the car going?"
"All right, but I want the oil drained out, Sam," handing, as he spoke,
the can of Mobiloil to the mechanic. "How is business?"
"Oh, so so." Sam glanced about the wide alley. "Pull up to this side,
Sir; I can get at the car better here."
Leaving the car, after he had complied with Sam's request, Rodgers
stood watching him for a few minutes, but his thought would stray back
to Kitty Baird and he lost interest in both the car and the mechanic.
Lighting a cigarette, he strolled down the alley to where it opened
into Pennsylvania Avenue. The sight of hurrying pedestrians and
swift-moving vehicles proved only a brief diversion as his mind again
returned to Kitty and the unsolved problem of her aunt's mysterious
death.
Oscar's conduct was a puzzle which he wanted time to think out. That
the old man knew more of the circumstances of Miss Susan Baird's death
than he was willing to divulge was self-evident. Rodgers was thoroughly
convinced that Oscar was devoted to Kitty. What then, did he mean to
infer by saying that he, Rodgers, must find Kitty's red coat before the
police secured it? In what possible way was the coat connected with
Miss Baird's death?
The blare of a motor horn almost in his ear caused Rodgers to jump
to one side as an army truck drove out of the valley and turned into
Pennsylvania Avenue. Not having time to look where he was going,
Rodgers collided with a dummy figure placed in front of a second-hand
clothes store. As Rodgers picked up the figure he found that its wax
face had come in contact with the pavement and was decidedly damaged.
With an impatient sigh he entered the store and was met by the
proprietor.
"I knocked over your dummy," he explained, drawing out his leather
wallet. "It got a bit damaged. How much--?" and he opened a roll of
Treasury bills.
"Wait; I'll go see the dummy first," and the proprietor bustled out of
the shop.
As Rodgers turned to accompany him, his eyes fell upon a red coat
lying on the counter. He had the faculty of carrying a color in his
mind's eye, also of noticing minute details. The coat looked like
Kitty's--with a single stride he was at the counter--the coat _was_
Kitty's. It was a stylishly cut garment, of a rough finish cloth, with
large patch pockets and a scarflike collar with fringe on the ends. To
make assurance doubly sure Rodgers examined the black and gold buttons
of Japanese handiwork. He had admired them too often to be mistaken.
How came Kitty's coat in that store? A voice at his elbow caused him to
wheel about.
"The face is kinda mussed up," announced the proprietor. "Five dollars
will cover it."
"Five dollars!" fumed Rodgers, then paused. "Oh, all right--" handing
him the money. "How much is this coat?"
"Twenty dollars." The proprietor had caught sight of Rodgers' generous
roll of greenbacks. "It's a nice coat; good as new, 'cept for the torn
lining and a few faded spots. It's just what any lady would want. She
could reline--"
"I'll take it," cut in Rodgers and the proprietor accepted his money
with a wry face. Why had he not asked more? It was not often that so
biddable a purchaser wandered into his shop. "By the way," Rodgers
paused in the doorway. "How long have you had this coat?"
"Two--no, three days." The proprietor paused to consider. "The woman
came early in the morning and somehow the coat got misplaced in my
stock. I was putting it in the window on display just as you arrived."
"Was the woman known to you?" asked Rogers. Both men were on the
sidewalk by that time.
"Not she--never laid eyes on her before and wouldn't know her again if
I was to see her." The proprietor was in a happy mood; not often had he
taken in twenty-five dollars so easily. "Well, I hope your lady likes
the coat. So-long," and he nodded affably, as Rodgers turned into the
alley.
There was still five minutes' work to be done on the car and Rodgers
spent them in hurrying Sam into completing the job without further
waste of time, and it was with a feeling of satisfaction that he laid
the coat on the seat and took his place behind the steering wheel.
He had to slow up for traffic as he started out of the alley into
Pennsylvania Avenue. A hail close at hand caused him to look around
and he recognized the proprietor of the second-hand clothes store
approaching.
"Hey! Just a minute," called the latter, and Rodgers pulled up at the
curb and waited for him. "Say, mister, my wife fancies that coat, so if
you don't mind I'll return you the twenty dollars," and he held out the
money.
Rodgers eyed him in astonishment. "I prefer to keep the coat," he said.
"Sorry I can't oblige you."
"But, see here," the man protested. "I'll give you two extra dollars.
Come now, that's fair; twenty-two dollars. Money don't often turn over
in your plans quite so fast, does it?" with a faint leer. "Here're the
extra dollars."
"Thanks, but I don't want them," dryly.
"Oh!" The proprietor looked blank. "'Spose we make it twenty-five?"
"Nothing doing."
"How about thirty dollars?" persisted the man. "Oh, I'm no piker,"
observing Rodgers' expression. "When I want a thing I am willing to pay
for it."
"And just why do you want this coat so particularly?" asked Rodgers,
his suspicion aroused.
"I told you my wife wants that coat."
"Well, she can't have it." Rodgers released the clutch and the car shot
down the Avenue, leaving the dealer in second-hand clothes standing
with mouth agape, gesticulating wildly after him.
It was but a short distance to the Bachelor where he had an apartment,
and Rodgers paid small regard to traffic regulations until he reached
there. He wasted some valuable moments in finding parking space near
the building and he was in no amiable frame of mind when he finally
hurried through the swing door of the front entrance. The elevator
boy was nowhere visible and Rodgers collected his letters from his
mail box; then, tucking the red coat under his arm, he went over to
the staircase and mounted it two steps at a time until he reached the
third floor. As he turned his latch-key and threw open the door of his
apartment he heard his name called and whirled around. Ben Potter was
walking toward him from the direction of the elevator shaft.
"Glad I caught you, Ted," he remarked, ignoring Rodgers' curt manner.
Not waiting for an invitation, he stepped into the apartment and walked
through the short hall into the large room which served Rodgers as a
combination living and dining room. "I came to apologize for my surly
behavior in Craige's office this morning, old man."
"Your apology is due to Miss Baird rather than to me," replied Rodgers
stiffly.
"I spoke in haste--without thought," Potter admitted amiably. "Let's
drop the matter, Ted. Can you dine with us to-night? I'll get Kitty to
come also."
"I have an engagement to-night, thanks."
Potter's florid complexion turned a warmer tint and he averted his
gaze so that Rodgers might not detect the sudden rage which his eyes
betrayed.
"Sorry; but you'll come some other time, perhaps," he mumbled. "Nina's
greatly interested in hearing of all that you have done for Kitty."
"I--done for her?" Rodgers turned and eyed his companion sharply.
Potter had perched himself on the end of the lounge with the evident
intention of remaining, and was leisurely rolling a cigarette.
"Sure--you have accomplished a great deal for Kitty," Potter affirmed
with emphasis. "You found the will which gave her a fortune. To put it
poetically, the beggar maid is now an heiress and a prey to fortune
hunters."
Rodgers' eyes blazed. "Your remarks are offensive," he exclaimed.
Potter straightened up. "Are you trying to fasten a quarrel on me?" he
demanded hotly.
"I intend to make you speak more respectfully of Miss Baird," retorted
Rodgers, his anger at white heat. "If that means a fight--well, I'm
ready," and he tossed the red coat on the nearest chair to have his
hands free.
Potter's big frame relaxed against the cushioned back of the lounge
as he forced a laugh. "You are too damned quick to take offense," he
protested. "Why, Kitty's my cousin. I'd be the first to take her part."
"And yet you insinuate--"
"Nothing," with a patience meant to exasperate. "What are you doing
with Kitty's red coat?"
Rodgers met the unexpected question with unmoved countenance.
"You are mistaken," he said. "It is not Miss Baird's coat."
"It isn't?" Potter's rising inflection expressed doubt. "Let me see
it?" And he reached forward a grasping hand.
With a quick movement Rodgers pulled the coat beyond Potter's
reach. The next second he was staggering backward from a crashing
blow delivered as Potter, who had gathered himself for a spring,
swung forward upon his feet. Rage at the treacherous attack was a
stimulant to Rodgers and he met Potter's second onslaught with a swift
right-hander. The scientist was no easy antagonist and for the moment
he had the better of the rough and tumble fight; then as the younger
man got his second wind he gave back and Rodgers pinned him against the
wall.
"You yellow dog!" Rodgers half sobbed the words in his rage as he
shifted his grip to the man's throat.
The movement gave Potter his opportunity. Wrenching his right hand free
he jerked a revolver from his coat pocket and brought the butt against
Rodgers' temple with stunning force. Rodgers sagged backward, then
regained his balance as Potter's revolver again descended on his head.
With a low moan he sank back, overturning a chair in his fall.
As Potter bent over the half-conscious man a resounding knock at the
apartment door caused him to start upright. One hasty glance about the
room showed him that the window overlooking the fire-escape was open.
Potter's eyes sought the red coat. It lay on the floor, half hidden
under Rodgers. Stooping over, he seized one of the sleeves and tugged
at it.
The action aroused Rodgers from his stupor and with such strength as
remained he grasped the sleeve also. It was an unequal tug-of-war.
Potter's cry of triumph was drowned by repeated knocking on the door
and the sound of raised voices demanding admittance. Not daring to
remain longer, he released his hold on the coat sleeve and bolted
through the window and down the fire-escape as an agile elevator boy
climbed through the pantry window from an adjoining balcony and popped
into the living room. He stopped aghast at sight of Rodgers, torn and
bleeding, and the chaotic condition of the overturned furniture.
"My Lawd! What's been a-happenin'?" he gasped. "We heered ructions an'
I got de police."
"Police!" The last word penetrated Rodgers' reeling senses, and his
eyes sought the red coat sleeve which he still grasped.
"Yes; they're at the do' now," as renewed pounding echoed through the
place.
"Go and let them in," commanded Rodgers; then, as the boy dashed down
the hall, he staggered to his feet over to the small dumb-waiter shaft
which was used to carry garbage cans, milk bottles and packages to the
apartment. But one idea was uppermost--the police must not get Kitty's
red coat. He had just time to open the door and thrust the red coat
down the chute and close the door again before two policemen appeared
in the room. Stars were dancing before Rodgers' eyes and he brushed his
hand across his forehead. He must think--think-- Should he have Potter
arrested? No, he would settle the score between them without police
aid. His hands clenched at the thought and he straightened up in spite
of the increasing sense of faintness which caused his knees to sag
under him.
"What's happened?" demanded the foremost policeman. "Who attacked you?"
"A burglar, evidently," replied Rodgers, sinking down in the nearest
chair. "I walked in on him. He went that way--" indicating the
fire-escape.
"Chase down and see if you can catch him, Mike," ordered the first
speaker. "I'll search the apartment for any clues. Here--" observing
Rodgers' half-fainting condition--"Good Lord, he's keeled over!"
An hour later Rodgers, his cuts treated by Dr. McLean, and finally left
alone by a too-solicitous policeman, went down into the basement of the
apartment house. He had no difficulty in locating the opening to the
dumb-waiter shaft. Looking inside, he found it empty.
"What is it, Mr. Rodgers?" inquired the janitor's wife, a young colored
girl who acted as laundress for the tenants.
"I'm looking for a red coat which I accidentally dropped down the
chute, Cora," Rodgers explained.
"Mercy, Sir, I wish I'd known that was yours," she exclaimed. "It was
on top of a pile of trash and was so raggety that I just put the whole
business in the furnace."
Rodgers stared at her aghast, then, collecting his wits, he dashed by
her and into the furnace room. The light from a hot fire half blinded
him as he flung open the furnace door. Lying on the flagging close to
the opening was a portion of the red coat--the rest was ashes. Rodgers
jerked out the piece of red cloth, and flinging it on the cement floor,
stamped out the smoldering flames. Paying no attention to Cora's
lamentations, he hurried upstairs, the precious piece in his hand.
Once more in his apartment and with the door safely locked, he dropped
down on the lounge and regarded all that remained of the coat, as his
thoughts returned to Oscar and his fervid request that he "find Miss
Kitty's red coat." In what way was the red coat involved in the mystery
of Miss Baird's death? Why had the dealer in second-hand clothes wished
so ardently to buy it back? How had it gotten into his hands in the
first place? Above all, why did Ben Potter wish to gain possession of
it?
Rodgers' head swam with the effort to find an answer to the enigma.
Sinking back against the cushions, he ran his hand over the piece of
red cloth. It was the front breadth of the coat and its patch pocket
that had remained intact.
As Rodgers' fingers strayed inside the pocket his thoughts turned to
Kitty Baird--beautiful Kitty Baird--his best beloved. His restless
fingers closed over a small wad of paper pressed deep in the coat
pocket. A second later he had smoothed out the paper and, carrying it
to the light, strove to read the writing upon it. A whistle escaped him.
"An 'I.O.U.,'" he exclaimed. "Devil take it, the signature's
undecipherable!"