CHAPTER V
THE MAN DRESSED AS A BULL
FIGHTER
When Eric Darrell left the little grocery on the corner, it was with a bad feeling at his heart.
It seemed as though a cold, clammy hand had suddenly come in contact with that member of his anatomy, and chilled it.
Could this thing be?
If Joe Leslie turned out to be that moral leper, a bigamist, Darrell believed he would never put any trust in human nature again.
Did it not look like it?
Nothing was lacking.
Good heavens! even the names were almost alike—Leslie and Lester.
He was horrified—dazed—dumfounded.
Then his teeth came together with a snap, and he swore he would solve this mystery—the man might be living two lives—others had done it before—perhaps many in New York are doing it to-day.
In his time Darrell had met with just such cases as this, and he believed his experience justified him in solving the puzzle.
So her husband was in California.
It was a likely story.
California must be very near by if he could drop in six times a week.
He passed the house again and found that there were still no signs of light.
Evidently those who lived there, perhaps enjoying the luxuries of the season, knew how to hide their light under a bushel.
Darrell remembered what Joe had said—he had long since despaired of renting the house, and probably did not try very hard.
Then again about his income—no wonder he did not know how he stood if he had to keep two separate establishments running.
They might do that economically out in Salt Lake City among the Mormons but it is quite an expensive luxury in New York.
So the detective made his way down to Twenty-third Street and entering a dairy kitchen where a thousand were being served to the music of an orchestra, had his dinner.
He took his time over it, read the evening paper, and when he finally passed out it was well on to eight o’clock.
Then he smoked a cigar and watched the passers by for half an hour more.
Then he sauntered away.
At nine o’clock he found himself one of a little crowd gathered at the door of a hall.
A masquerade was to take place here, and as carriage after carriage drove up, depositing nymphs and devils, cavaliers and knights, upon the pavement, the crowd laughed in a good-natured way.
Some of the rougher element might have indulged in jeers or remarks that would have brought on trouble, but for their fear of the law, which was represented by two stalwart policemen, armed with their long night sticks which are a dread to the heathen of the slums.
Darrell was interested too, and stood with the rest, looking on.
While thus engaged, a gentleman and lady left a hack and walked toward the entrance.
He represented a Spanish bull fighter, and with his splendid figure made a remarkably good matador, while his companion, as a lady of cards, caused a ripple of admiration among the lookers-on.
Both were fully masked, and, having wraps over their costumes, only a portion of the latter were seen; but it was evident that the lady was possessed of a lovely figure, her arms were rounded and perfect, while her neck, glimpses of which could be seen, was dazzlingly white, and royally built.
Darrell looked at her with interest.
Then his eyes fell on her escort.
He started.
Surely that figure was owned by none other than Joe Leslie.
What was he doing at the ball?
Was this his wife?
Of course it must be—the figure and beautiful neck corresponded with what Darrell remembered of Mrs. Leslie.
Still, he could not help but think it odd, even at that brief moment, for Joe to bring his lovely wife here to this ball.
True, it was a respectable affair, and many good people attended it, but none of the first families in New York would dream of being seen at the public masquerade—at least if they came they went away without unmasking.
As the couple passed him he could not resist saying aloud:
The man seemed to start, and muttered something to his companion, at which she laughed, but he did not look around to see who had spoken.
Others were following them.
Darrell stood a while longer, and then left the scene.
Somehow or other he was troubled—he knew not exactly why.
If that was Lillian with her husband, it was all well and good—although surprised at Joe taking his wife to such a carnival, so long as her husband was with her it was all right.
But was it Lillian?
This thought kept crowding into his brain. He could not expel it.
After a little he became angry with himself for brooding over the matter so.
“Hang it, I can settle the matter easily,” he muttered, as he found himself at the foot of the stairs leading to the elevated station.
So up he ran.
It was not a great while later when he found himself walking along the street on which the Leslies lived.
He had never seen their house before, but having the number speedily found it.
Of course it was one of a row. How neat and clean everything looked up in this region when compared with the neighborhood of the Twenty-seventh Street house.
His sympathies naturally ran in favor of Lillian—he seemed to believe she was the more innocent of Joe’s dupes—provided the case was really as bad as it seemed.
Making sure he had the right number, as the houses were built pretty much alike, he ran up the steps and pulled the bell.
A minute later a girl came to the door. “I wish to see Mr. Leslie.”
“He is out, sir.”
“Ah!”
Darrell’s suspicions took firmer ground.
The girl held the door open a crack, as though it were secured by a chain bolt.
“Mrs. Leslie will do—can I see her?”
He almost held his breath waiting for the answer—it seemed as though the fate of a seemingly happy household depended upon it—whether Joe Leslie were saint or sinner.
“Mrs. Leslie is in—what name, please?”
“You may say—stay, here is my card,” believing the girl would have no chance to read it on the way.
He handed her a calling card which simply bore his name.
In a minute she came back.
“Mrs. Leslie will see you, sir.”
The door opened.
Eric Darrell found himself under the roof of Joe Leslie’s little “bird’s nest,” as the latter was fond of styling it.
Everything around him showed evidences of good taste and plenty of money.
Poor bachelor Eric heaved a sigh as he noted the comfortable air of the cozy house.
“What a fool,” he muttered, “but some men never know when they’re well off. With a wife and a home like his, Joe ought to be the happiest man in New York. Seems to me these things generally go to the ones least capable of appreciating them.”
By this time the philosopher, in following the servant along the hall, came to the open library door, through which she motioned him to enter.
He did so.
Here his old bachelor soul was worse rattled than ever—such a dream of bliss may have come to him over his post-prandial cigar, but he had never believed it could be realized to a human being here below.
The soft lights, the cases of books, the cheery fire in the large grate, and, chief of all, the pretty little lady seated at the table engaged in some delicate fancy work—it all took poor Eric’s breath away.
He had sense enough to walk up and shake hands.
“You see the plight I am in—you will forgive my not rising, Mr. Darrell,” she said, referring to her lap full of silk threads and such odds and ends.
“Certainly, Mrs. Leslie, don’t move, I beg. I will find a seat near by,” he returned.
She was looking at him eagerly.
“Mr. Darrell, it is not accident that brings you up here to-night?” she said, and there was a question in her eyes as well as in her voice.
He cannot get out of this.
“I came on a little business.”
“You asked to see Mr. Leslie?”
“In reality I expected to see you.”
“Ah! you have already solved our terrible mystery—tell me the worst—does Joe visit that awful house to play cards?”
It is hard work dealing with a woman—she is apt to ask so many questions and demand an answer—then, if important facts are told her she may in a fit of pique or anger disclose them to the very one who should not know.
Darrell knows all this.
He understands how to manage the gentler sex, and in the present instance does not mean to tell one whit more than is necessary.
“I am sorry to say, Mrs. Leslie, that the case is not yet closed—indeed, the complications are growing more serious—but,” as he observes the look of pain on her sweet face, “I expect and hope to soon clear it all up.”
“Heaven grant it,” she replied.
Luckily Lillian had considerable reserve force in her nature, and now that this was brought into play, she gave promise of rising to meet the exigencies of the occasion.
Darrell admired her courage.
He found it harder to believe evil of her than he did of Joe, for he had great respect for the gentler sex, and believed all men had a good share of the old Adam in them—some fought the good fight and conquered—others lay down their arms and surrendered, while many ran to meet the evil half way, so misshapen were their souls.
Alone, when speculating upon this strange double case, he might figure out this thing or that by force of logic; but when looking upon that truthful, lovely face, and into those calm eyes, he was ready to exclaim:
“Shame upon you, Eric Darrell, for ever even thinking this little woman and wrong could have anything in common. She’s an angel if ever there was one on earth, and I hope her sister is built upon the same pattern.”
“Where is Joe?” he asked, suddenly.
“You haven’t seen him then?”
“I—no, indeed, not to speak to since he was in my office this afternoon.”
“I—thought he had gone to you—he spoke your name in connection with the matter.”
“What matter, may I ask?”
“The sad affair that took him from me to-night.”
Sad affair!
As Darrell saw again in imagination the gay surroundings of the hall where the grand bal masque was being held, he ground his teeth in silent rage, but knowing that a pair of sharp eyes were upon him he did not allow his fury to find a vent.
“Indeed! I am just as much in the dark as ever, Mrs. Leslie—enlighten me.”
“I presume it’s the same sad business he went to see you about to-day.”
Darrell thought not.
“You know he has a young clerk and cashier in his employ, Georgie Kingsley, of whom Joe is very fond. Of late he has been led to believe the boy is getting a little wild—reports have been reaching Joe of little things, showing that Georgie is keeping bad company, and gambling. I know this has worried Joe of late.”
Darrell thought something else might be giving him a nervous spell too—no man can live a double life except at a great mental strain, for the risk of sudden exposure must be terrible.
“So he’s gone to try and save poor Georgie to-night, has he? Noble-hearted old Joe.”
She could not help but catch something of the sneer under his words, and trembled as she realized that the detective had grave doubts.
“He said he would probably go to your room and get your company.”
“He changed his mind, no doubt,” muttered the detective—indignation was apt to make him tell more than discretion warranted.
“What do you mean—you know something that you do not want to tell me. I insist on your speaking. Have you seen my husband?”
“I believe I have.”
“Where was it?”
“Entering the hall where a bal masque was being held—quite a large affair.”
“Alone?” breathlessly.
“No—with a lady. Good heavens! Mrs. Leslie, take it calmly, I beg of you!”
CHAPTER VI
MARIAN
He need not have been so alarmed.
True, the blood seemed to leave Lillian’s face, and she gasped for breath, but a moment later she appeared so calm that even the detective was amazed.
His admiration increased, for he saw this woman was no pretty doll, to faint at the first breath of adversity.
“Do you know this as a fact, Mr. Darrell?” she asked in steady tones.
“I do not, positively, and I think we ought to give Joe the benefit of the doubt.”
“I shall do more than that. Until with his own lips he acknowledges such a thing to me, I will believe him innocent—I will trust him as I have always done, as the best and truest man on earth. And yet it cuts home to even have such suspicions aroused—oh, if Marian were only here!”
“Yes, the sister I love so dearly, and who would be such a comfort to me. She always believed in Joe. It would be a great shock to her.”
Eric was struck by a sudden thought.
They always came with a rush, and at times might fall under the name of an inspiration.
“Have you your sister’s photograph handy, Mrs. Leslie? Your husband spoke of her so much and said I must meet her some day. I am quite interested, and would like to see her picture.”
“That is it on the mantel.”
She did not evidently suspect the awful thought that came into his brain.
He walked over and looked at the photograph. It attracted him very much.
The face was very like Lillian’s, only the hair and eyes were dark.
“I shall expect an invitation here when your sister comes on, Mrs. Leslie. She is in Chicago now, I believe.”
“That is her home, but she is now traveling in California with a party of friends.”
California!
The mention of that far-away State sent a cold chill down his back.
Was it not the grocery man who had said the beautiful Mrs. Lester’s husband was in California?
Somehow he made the application, and the effect was a decided chill.
It was growing blacker for Joe.
“I shall take a run down and see if I can find Joe—he may be at my room waiting for me—who knows? Can I trust you to keep this matter from him, Mrs. Leslie—supposing this is all a mistake and that he is innocent, would you ever want him to believe that you harbored such suspicions?”
“No, no, I would not,” she sobbed.
“Then do your part—you can act it I am sure. Appear natural—show no unusual coldness or warmth of affection—try not to meet his eye or your own may betray you. If he insists on finding out what ails you, retreat in the usual plea of a headache.”
“I will not fail you, Mr. Darrell. You go about your work with the prayers of a faithful wife following you.”
He believed it then—he would have staked his life on her truth—and yet in the near future such terrible doubts were to arise.
“Surely that talisman ought to keep any man who is half a man, from evil—a loving mother and a faithful wife are the lodestones that have saved many a weak man from the pit of destruction. Good-night, Mrs. Leslie. Remember, should the worst come, you can depend upon Eric Darrell as your brother.”
He had said more than he intended to, but he was not cold-blooded like a fish, and the evident distress of this angel on earth had wrought up all his feelings.
Just then he felt as though he could have pommeled Joe Leslie with the greatest of pleasure.
Any man was a brute who would give a woman like this sweet creature, pain.
So Eric strode away angry with the wickedness of the world in general, and this friend of his in particular.
If Joe Leslie turned out a rascal he could see no palliating circumstance connected with the case, and according to his ideas the man ought to be drawn and quartered.
Hardly knowing where he was going, Darrell brought up at the hall where the bal masque was in progress.
It was still early—not later than half past ten, and the affair had only started.
Any one could get in on payment of the regular price, two dollars, although none were allowed on the main floor but masks.
Darrell went in.
He had seen these things before, and hence had little interest in the ball itself.
Most of the characters were old too, although here and there some genius had devised something new, and worth looking at.
Eric had other ideas in view.
Monks, flower girls, Indians, Chinese, knights, fortune tellers, dames and the endless chain of historical personages such an event gathers, passed before him without exciting more than a slight smile or a single glance of admiration.
He was looking for the couple upon whom he meant to bestow his interest.
Soon he sighted them.
From that time on Eric seldom took his eyes off the pair.
He imagined he detected certain little peculiarities in the man’s walk that marked him as Joe Leslie.
As for the woman, Eric became quite interested trying to make her out—in figure she certainly resembled Lillian, and this only added to his eager pursuit.
Another point he noticed—her hair was dark.
Was she the one who had entered his mind?
He noticed that when they danced it was always together—other couples might separate but the Spanish bull fighter and the Lady of Cards seemed inseparable.
Probably they were greeted with more or less lively sallies in the badinage that passed current among the dancers, but the size of the bull fighter deterred any envious swains from attempting to relieve him of his partner.
Darrell noted the envious actions of some of the male maskers who could not find partners, and made up his mind there would be trouble yet unless the couple withdrew early.
The detective had managed to get below by bribing a keeper.
He did not go out upon the floor, but remained under the gallery.
It was not very light here.
Now and then some promenading couple would pass by, chatting and laughing, a red clad Mephistopheles fanning a pretty shepherdess, or a portly friar joking with Queen Elizabeth.
One thing is always noticeable about these bal masques—the ladies never assume a grotesque costume, always endeavoring to appear charming, according to their own ideas, and leaving the funny part of the business to the male sex.
The couple whom Darrell was anxious to watch had mingled with the crowd dancing and for some little time he lost sight of them.
He began to grow a little anxious and was just thinking of changing his quarters, when all of a sudden they appeared in view close by.
They were heading for the dark spot under the gallery where, only a few persons had gathered.
The lady was holding both hands up to her head, as if to keep her, mask from falling while her tall escort forced a passage.
Eric shrank back behind a pillar.
The two came within ten feet of where he stood, and there halted.
“Can you fix it?” he heard her ask.
“I will try, Marian,” was the reply.
That name—it confirmed the detective’s worst fears—he could believe anything now. The Lady of Cards handed her mask to her companion, who immediately endeavored to refasten the string that had broken loose.
Meanwhile she stood with her face bared, looking out upon the throng.
What a miserable thing it was that the light was so poor under the gallery.
Darrell just then would have given a hundred dollars for one good square look at her face.
Oh, for an electric torch to suddenly light up the scene and reveal those features to his gaze.
He used his eyes to the utmost, but it was not at all satisfactory, for her face was in the shadow; but he had an idea she was very like the picture he had looked at recently—the photograph of Lillian’s sister.
Presently the bull fighter had succeeded in re-securing the string.
He tied the mask on for her.
His manner was very courtly and gentle, but one spectator did not enjoy it at all.
This was Eric.
His thoughts would go, in spite of him, to that heavenly room where he had left a sweet and faithful wife waiting for her Joe to return.
Somehow Eric felt savage to-night, and he wondered whether it would not serve this man just right if he did get into trouble with some of the envious young beaux who followed him about as though only waiting a good chance to carry off his partner by force.
A traitor deserved such punishment.
“I’ll never believe in a man again,” said Eric to himself, filled with shame and disgust for his sex; “by Jove! they’re all alike, a miserable crowd of deceivers, every one.”
He forgot that he belonged to the same sex, and that his very indignation proved his words exaggerated, since he could not share in such evil plottings, and there must be others like him.
He wandered up and down.
Now and then he saw the couple, but much of the time they were lost to his view.
Darrell remained near the exit.
It was nearly twelve o’clock, when the order to unmask would be given.
Some who did not care to remain and be recognized were already flitting.
He believed those whom he watched would do likewise, and it was his desire to get outside at the same time to hear the directions given to the driver if any were uttered.
Just at this moment, close by, he heard sounds of an uproar.
These things are generally prevented at public balls by the presence of the police, but no officers were in sight now—perhaps they had gone into the refreshment room.
Darrell instantly had a suspicion of the truth, and his eyes were immediately directed toward the melee.
Just as he suspected, in the struggling crowd he saw the tall form of the Spanish bull fighter—the man was dealing blows right and left and had already sent several audacious assailants rolling in the dust of the hall floor.
CHAPTER VII
A BRAND FROM THE BURNING
The detective was a man.
He admired courage and grit, no matter in whom it was found, and when he saw the Spanish bull fighter holding his own against the number who had assailed him he could not but express this feeling.
It seemed as though these young bloods were furious because the other kept his partner to himself, and allowed her to dance with no one else—it is always the case that a pack of such hot heads may be found at a public gathering, and trouble often ensues.
Perhaps the Lady of Cards, secure behind her mask, had flirted with some of them, and had driven them wild.
It is human nature to covet what we cannot have and their anger toward the giant bull fighter had grown intense.
As we have seen, it culminated in what threatened to be a riot.
The woman was frightened now—she trembled, and cowered behind her protector.
He stood up like a rock before her.
Twice his arm had shot out and on each occasion one of his assailants had gone down. They pressed him hard.
The bull fighter turned to the right and left and defended himself gallantly, while he shielded his companion as best he could.
It was a singular spectacle to be seen at a New York public ball.
When passion rules men’s minds their surroundings have no effect on them.
They would fight in a tomb, over the dead.
Seeing that in all probability the rascals would get the better of the man, Darrell pushed that way; at this moment one of the men grasped the lady by the wrist.
She screamed.
The bull fighter turned like a mad tiger, saw what was transpiring, threw the assailants who were clinging to him, and plunged at the man who was grasping the lady’s arm and endeavoring to drag her away, for the music still kept up, and many were dancing all unconscious of the melee.
There was a tremendous rush, the bull fighter caught the wretch and whirled him, spinning like a teetotum, ten feet away. Never did a dancing dervish spin so merrily.
Then came an awful crash, as the man struck a swaying column of dancers, who immediately toppled over upon him.
By this time the detective was at the side of the bull fighter.
“Keep back, you young fools! Keep back, I say, or I’ll land the whole of you in the Tombs!” His words were heard.
Backed up as they were with the shining barrel of a revolver, they commanded respect.
By this time the management had succeeded in getting the officers from the supper-room to the spot, and upon seeing them come, the young fellows who had been the cause of the disturbance slunk away, losing themselves in the crowd.
The management apologized to the bull fighter when they learned what had occurred, but his companion seemed to have received a nervous shock—at any rate they retired for their wraps.
There was something more he desired to learn and the chance must soon come.
He waited.
Just at twelve they came.
The hour for unmasking had arrived, and there was quite a high time within.
This displeased the detective, for he was afraid lest he might not hear what he desired.
The couple walked down the pavement in search of the carriage, which was waiting near by, the driver having received instructions.
They soon reached it.
Darrell hovered near.
The bull fighter assisted his companion in and then entered himself.
“Where to, sir?” asked the driver, probably not knowing but what they had another engagement at some private ball.
A burst of laughter from the house deadened the reply, but Darrell’s keen ears caught:“—Twenty-seventh Street.”
It was enough.
He felt down-spirited.
In so far as he could see ahead, the case was a settled one—Joe Leslie was guilty.
He seemed to feel it as keenly as though it were a brother of his.
Poor Lillian! that it should come to this in one short year.
It would have seemed incredible, but he was used to meeting with strange things, and being of a philosophical train of mind could take things pretty much as they came.
So Darrell turned homeward.
There was nothing more to be done that night.
He remembered that on the morning he had engaged to watch the house in which the Leslies lived.
That strange man would come and must be tracked to discover his identity.
It was a task Darrell did not like.
Every time he thought of it he saw the face of Lillian before him, and in the depth of those liquid eyes there appeared such a world of truth that the detective was fain to shake his head.
Experienced man of the world as he was, he could not believe her guilty.
There must be some mistake.
So he made his way to his rooms, feeling depressed over the events of the night.
He hated the thought of his next meeting with the lady—how could he face her and tell her what he had seen and heard?
“Hang the foolish fellow—how could he treat such an angel in that way?”
Hold on, Mr. Darrell, before twenty-four hours have flown you will perhaps have changed your mind and concluded that even angels may be of the earth, earthy.
When he arrived at his apartments it was about half-past twelve.
As he opened the door he saw a card below. When he had applied the burning match to the gas, he picked this up.
“Hello!” was his exclamation.
His eyes had fallen upon a name.
“Joseph Gregory Leslie.”
Turning the card over he found, scribbled in pencil, the words:
“Called to see you—may come in later to-night. Some important business.”
When he had read this the detective scratched his head and mused.
“How is this—he must have run down here first. Come in later, eh? Well, who knows but what after he has seen Marian home he may run down?”
He stopped to listen to a carriage rumbling along the street—at this time of night they were not very frequent here, and when it stopped in front of the house he smiled.
“Ah, he has seen her home and come down to carry out his promise to Lillian. The story of the erring clerk may not be all moonshine.”
He put his head out of the window.
The carriage lamps shone below.
It was a hack, drawn by dark horses.
So had the other been.
Darrell had not the slightest idea but that they were one and the same—he flattered himself that he could read Joe Leslie like a book, for the man was a poor plotter.
Just as he suspected, there were footsteps on the stairs.
Some one was coming.
A knock sounded on his door.
Opening it, who should be standing there but Joe Leslie in the flesh?
“You are home at last—I have been here twice before and found you out,” he said.
Darrell believed once would answer, but of course he made no such remark.
“Well, come in and sit down.”
“What do you want with me?” asked Darrell, just as though he did not already know.
“Can you give me an hour or so?”
“Yes.”
“I have a favorite clerk—I am afraid he has fallen into bad company. For his mother’s sake I want to rescue him before it is too late.”
Darrell admired the motive however much he distrusted the man.
“Wait a minute and I will go with you.”
He kicked off his slippers and drew on his shoes. Then a coat and hat followed. The minute was not yet over when he announced himself in readiness.
Truly, Eric Darrell would do for a lightning change artist on the stage.
They passed down the stairs of the house, which had apartments for gentlemen only.
New York is full of these bachelor dens, some of them having suites of rooms furnished in a gorgeous manner that speaks of the sybarite taste of the rich young or old owner. The bachelors of to-day live for their own comfort, surrounded by all the luxuries money can purchase for them.
No one thinks of pitying them any longer, least of all do they themselves feel forlorn.
People who love a home may sigh at such a picture, but it is the truth in all large cities and New York above the rest. On the way down Joe spoke:
“You know the places where such a young man is apt to be found, Eric?”
“Well, I ought to—my business carries me into them every week,” replied the other.
“Then let us make the rounds.”
He spoke wearily.
Why not?
When a man has been dancing for several hours, he cannot feel as fresh as a daisy—it does not stand to reason.
They entered the hack.
Darrell gave his first address to Joe who repeated it to the driver.
Away they went.
“Hello! what’s wrong with your hand?” asked the detective. The carriage lamps gave enough light for him to see that Joe had his handkerchief wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand.
“Took a tumble up a dark flight of stairs when I was looking awhile back and bruised my knuckles.”
Darrell smiled but made no remark. He thought he knew how that hand had become bruised—it was in a more honorable business than falling up stairs—in defending a weak and helpless woman against ruffians.
“You know some of these places then, Joe?”
“My driver knew of several, but I had hard work getting in.”
Darrell thought so.
“Perhaps they did not think I wanted to play, and may have been suspicious of my intentions.”
“No doubt. If you rescued some young fellow from their clutches, it meant less money for their pockets.”
They lapsed into silence.
Soon the vehicle stopped.
They entered a gambling den.
Joe quickly declared his clerk was not there and they proceeded to another.
Four had been visited, and in the last one he discovered the young man at the green baize, his face flushed with wine and excitement.
The detective drew him out and brought him to his employer, at sight of whom he turned white and put his hands to his eyes.
Joe Leslie talked to him beautifully—even that hard-hearted detective, Eric Darrell, who had seen so much of the world, had to turn his head away and wink hard to dry up his tears.
As for the boy—he was hardly more—what he heard so affected him that he caught hold of Joe’s arm and sobbed outright.
“As heaven is my judge, Mr. Leslie, from this hour I will never again yield to temptation in any shape. What you said about my mother has taken the scales from my eyes and I see.”
Even Darrell knew he would stand firm.
Joe Leslie had saved one soul.
CHAPTER VIII
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.”
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?”
“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.”
CHAPTER IX
JOE’S SECRET
Mike Crotty was on deck. Eric readily found him.
The man was a stranger to him, but there is a mystic tie between the detectives and police in a great city—they work in harmony.
Soon the two men were conversing with the greatest freedom.
Crotty had often heard of Detective Darrell, and was only too glad to supply any information that lay in his power. He remembered meeting the hackman and spoke of the bells ringing out the midnight hour.
There could be no mistake.
When Eric left the officer, he was a badly puzzled man to be sure. Instead of having solved the mystery it was assuming even darker proportions, and the chances seemed equally divided.
Was Joe guilty or not?
If, as these men agreed, he was at a certain place just as the solemn midnight hour rang out, how could he have been at the bal masque—it was at that hour of unmasking the Spanish bull fighter and his consort, the Lady of Cards, drove away in another vehicle and yet—that man possessed the stalwart figure of Joe Leslie—Eric believed he would know it anywhere—he had answered to the name of Joe, while his companion was Marian.
The difficulties in the way might have daunted a less persevering officer than Darrell.
They only spurred him on to renewed exertions. He gloried in a puzzle.
To a man of his nature it was the most pleasurable work in the world, studying the intricacies of a mystery, grasping a thread in the labyrinthine maze, following it along inch by inch, until the whole thing resolved itself into a solved problem.
Then, when the end came, how proud he would be to survey his work.
He began to give Joe the benefit of the doubt. This was one point gained.
It is a rule in American courts never to adjudge a man guilty until he has been proven so—the law looks upon him as innocent, and all efforts of the prosecutor are directed toward proving the charges.
In some other countries the opposite is the case and the accused has to prove his innocence.
Eric Darrell was gradually applying this former principle to the case in question.
Perhaps Joe might be innocent, and this cloud hanging over him be the result of circumstantial evidence.
At any rate the detective hoped so.
He looked at his watch mechanically.
Just now the thought came into his head that he must find out all about Joe before another night had spread its mantle over the city.
The time dragged along.
He had some work to do in his office, and this consumed something like an hour.
Then he made his way slowly in the direction of Twenty-seventh Street.
It was about four when he came in sight of the house around which clustered so much that was mysterious.
Sauntering along, he kept watch for Joe, feeling almost sure the other would come.
Sure enough, at the regular time his tall figure came in view.
Darrell managed it so that at this moment he was nearly opposite the house.
He could see Joe without looking in a particular manner across the street, and he saw that the other appeared nervous and worried.
Was his guilty secret wearing on his mind?
Something undoubtedly disturbed him.
Any one could see that from the expression on his face.
As usual, when he came in front of the house, he turned and looked up the street, as though he were afraid lest some one whom he knew would recognize him.
Then he went up the steps.
There was no ringing the bell.
With a key he opened the door as though proprietor there.
Then Darrell, passing on, lost sight of him. The detective crossed the street beyond, and came on down, intending to pass the house again.
He changed his mind.
When just opposite, looking up he saw that fortune beckoned him.
The door was ajar.
Joe had been a trifle careless, and made a mistake when he thought he closed the door.
Mr. Darrell was a man quick to make up his mind, and he instantly saw a chance here to further his plans.
Without hesitating an instant he advanced up the steps, stood upon the door-step, and seemed to glance around carelessly, when in reality he was listening to catch any sound that might come from the interior.
Another moment and he had entered.
Perhaps some one saw him, but he had put on an air of proprietorship such as Joe wore, and curious eyes must have simply reached the conclusion that his coming was but another link in the chain of mystery surrounding the house.
Once in the hall, the detective quietly closed the door, making sure it was fast.
Enough light came in through the glass above to show him the stairs.
There was carpet on the floor.
Near by were folding doors, and, as they stood ajar, Darrell poked his head through, not merely out of curiosity, but because he felt that he had an interest in the matter.
The parlor was furnished.
It was no empty house into which he had come thus surreptitiously.
Not a sound from within.
How strange it seemed.
What could it all mean?
Vague and even terrible ideas flashed into his mind—was Joe connected with some secret cabal or society that met here every day?
Perhaps some awful secret was gnawing at his vitals, and daily sapping his life.
What was that?
A door slammed above.
Eric was glad to hear it, for he realized that the house had something human about it.
As near as he could judge the sound came from upstairs.
Then he would not have to grapple with the demons of the underground world.
At times even the oddest fancies will surge through the most prosaic mind.
One of the thoughts that had come to him was that possibly Joe had become connected with some gang of counterfeiters—he had heard of things just as strange—and although it seemed a preposterous idea in connection with Joe, still it had already become apparent that there was something very strange connected with him and why not this as well as any other?
Lately Eric had been reading Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and his mind was full of strange fancies concerning the awful change that was wont to come over that unfortunate being, who lived two lives, each unknown to the other.
It did not seem possible that Joe Leslie could be doing this exactly, but he might be carrying on two characters successfully.
At his business and his home up-town he was known as Joseph G. Leslie—on Twenty-seventh Street he might be Mr. Lester. To tear the mask away and expose the truth was what brought the detective here now.
In the interest of justice he was bound to do this much.
Then again he thought of Lillian.
In his indignation he wished she could be there to face her husband when his guilty secret was laid bare.
It might seem cruel—so does the hot iron of the doctor when applied to the marks left by the teeth of an enraged dog, but it is done with kindness—heroic treatment saves one from something more terrible beyond. Perhaps, if faced by Lillian, Joe would break down and receive a shock that would last him all the rest of his natural life.
So the detective made up his mind not to betray his presence now if he could help it, but reserve the denouement to a later date, when it could be made more dramatic.
All he meant to do now was to secure certain evidence for future use.
The stairs, being carpeted, gave forth no sound when he began ascending.
He felt rather peculiar about this whole business—had this man been a stranger he would not have experienced this same uneasiness; but Joe Leslie—to think that he should be upon the track of his old friend, and with such a purpose in view.
Once the stairs creaked under his weight and he stood still—the sound was preternaturally loud in an empty house; but there was no result, so that he presently continued his course of exploration.
Vehicles rumbled past the house—he could hear them plainly, as though some window were open near at hand.
Just as he reached the top of the stairs a cough reached his ears—it was a man who gave utterance to it, probably Joe.
No voices?
Eric Darrell’s wonder arose with each passing moment—strange to say, he was trembling all over now with excitement.
No living soul had ever seen this man in such a condition before, which fact went to prove how deep his interest was in the game he was now pursuing.
Not for worlds would he have stopped, now that his hand was on the plow.
The end must be near, and Joe’s deep secret could not long remain such—it must be met and dragged to the light.
Darrell looked around him, since he was now at the head of the stairs.
The house seemed to be furnished throughout, and yet there seemed an air of desertion and loneliness about it, as though it lacked the daily care of a housekeeper—little things seemed to be lacking that would indicate the fact of its being a habitation that was occupied—where human beings lived and moved.
Somehow this fact impressed itself on the detective’s mind.
He did not have much time for thought, as action was necessary.
When the brave soldier finds himself face to face with the enemy, he does not spend the minutes in reflection, but acts.
So with Eric—he had looked forward to this period for quite a time, and now that it had arrived, he was not the one to tarry.
Where was Joe?
As nearly as he could place them the sounds had come from the front room.
He crept silently along in that direction—the door was open, and nothing prevented his seeing the interior of the apartment.
It was furnished, but did not contain a single occupant—light crept through the inside blinds, sufficient to show him this fact, and his wonder was simply increased to a fever heat.
In the name of heaven, what did all this strange mystery mean—where was Joe—what freak induced him to come here, and—
An odd, crackling sound reached his ears—ah! it proceeded from a small room used as a dressing-room, the door of which was closed.
Eric crept over to it and listened—all was as still as death within.
Baffled in this endeavor, he leaned against the door, pressing his ear close to the panel, to catch any voices—if conspirators were gathered there they must talk—this silence could not be long maintained.
The door must have been on the latch—at any rate it was not fastened, and as Eric leaned against it this impediment to his vision slowly gave way, opening a foot or so, and Joe Leslie’s terrible secret was revealed to the detective’s eyes.