The Cab of the Sleeping Horse

Harleston took a taxi to the Collingwood, arriving just as Ranleigh came up, and the two men went in together.

Whiteside was there; gagged and bound to the same chair that had held Crenshaw.

The rooms were in confusion. Everything had been gone through; clothes were scattered over the floor, papers were strewn about, drawers stood open.

They released Whiteside, and presently he was able to talk.

“When did it happen?” Ranleigh asked.

“About five o’clock this afternoon, sir,” Whiteside replied, in a most apologetic tone. He knew there was no sympathy and no excuse for the detective who let his prisoner escape. “The bell rang. I went to the door—and was shot senseless by a chemical revolver. When I came to, I had exchanged places with the prisoner, and he and another man were just departing. ‘My compliments to Mr. Harleston when he returns,’ said Crenshaw, as he went out.”

“Describe the other man!” said Ranleigh.

“Medium sized, slender, dark hair and eyes, good features, looked like a gentleman, wore a blue sack-suit, black silk tie, and stiff straw hat.”

“It’s Sparrow,” Harleston remarked. “Did they take anything with them?”

“Nothing whatever that I saw, sir.”

“You’re excused until morning,” said the Chief curtly.

The detective saluted and went out.

“I am exceedingly sorry I overlooked Whiteside when I escaped from Crenshaw’s garrote in the Chateau,” Harleston remarked. “The simple fact is, I clean forgot him until I was talking with you on the telephone.”

“It’s just as well, Mr. Harleston,” Ranleigh replied. “It served him right. He will be fortunate if his want of precaution doesn’t cost him his job.”

“No, no!” Harleston objected. “Whiteside has been punished. I intercede for him. Let him continue in his job, please.”

“Very good, sir,” Ranleigh acquiesced. “But he’ll be informed that he owes his retention entirely to you.”

When Ranleigh departed, after hearing a detailed account of the evening’s doings at the hotel, Harleston sat for a little while thinking; finally he drew over a pad and made a list of things that required explanation, or seemed to require explanation, at the present stage of the matter:

“(1) The translation of the cipher letter. This should explain Madeline Spencer’s connection with the affair.

“(2) Did the following persons, incidents, or circumstances have any bearing on the affair.

“(a) The lone and handsome woman, who left the Collingwood at three that morning.

“(b) The note ‘à l’aube du jour’ (signed) ‘M,’ found in Crenshaw’s pocket.

“(c) The telephone call of the Chartrand apartment at 12:52 A.M., by a man who said that he was ‘here’ and to meet him at 10 A.M.

“(d) The persons in the Chartrand apartment the previous night.

“(e) After 1 P.M. no one entered the Collingwood by the usual way, and no one telephoned; how, therefore, did anyone in the Collingwood know of the incident of the cab, and of my connection with it.

“(f) Who is Mrs. Winton of the Burlingame apartments?

“(g) Why was she in Peacock Alley, wearing black and red roses, at five o’clock this afternoon?”

Harleston read over the list, folded it, and put it in his pocket-book; then he went to bed. There was plenty for him to seek, in regard to the affair of the cab of the sleeping horse, but nothing more for the Spencer gang to inspect in his apartment. Crenshaw had made a thorough job of his investigation.

In the morning he took out the list and went over it again. They all were dependent on the translation of the letter; if it did not show that the United States was concerned in the matter, the rest became merely of academic interest—and Harleston had little inclination and no time for things academic. The difficulty was, that until the key to the cipher was found nothing was academic which appeared to have any bearing on the affair.

So he sent for the manager of the Collingwood, and asked as to the Chartrands. The manager’s information, which was definite if not extensive, was to the effect that the Chartrands were people of means from Denver, with excellent social position there, and with connections in Washington. They had been tenants of the Collingwood less than a week, having sublet the Dryand apartment. It was a large apartment. Mr. Chartrand was possibly forty-five, his wife thirty-eight or forty and exceedingly good-looking. There was, of course, no record kept of their visitors, nor did the house know who they were entertaining the previous evening. He was entirely sure, however, that the Chartrands were above suspicion. Mrs. Chartrand was a blonde, petite and slender; Chartrand was tall and rather stout, with red hair, and a scar across his forehead. As for the tall, slender woman who left the Collingwood at three in the morning, he did not recognize her from the description; he would, however, investigate at once.

That it might be Madeline Spencer, now that her presence in Washington was declared, Harleston thought possible. “Slender, twenty-eight, walks as though the ground were hers,” the telephone operator had said. He would get the photograph from Carpenter and let Miss Williams see it. If she recognized it as Spencer, much would be explained.

He stopped a moment at the Club, then went on to the State Department. As he turned the corner near the Secretary’s private elevator, the Secretary himself was on the point of embarking and he waited.

“You want to see me?” he asked.

“Just a moment, Mr. Secretary, since you’re here,” Harleston responded. “I came particularly to see Carpenter. There has been a plenty doing in that matter, but nothing worthy of report to you—except one thing. Madeline Spencer is in town.”

“The devil she is!” exclaimed the Secretary.

“And as beautiful, as fascinating, as sinuous, and as young as ever.”

“She must be a vision.”

“She is—and an extraordinarily dangerous vision.”

“Only to you impressible chaps!” the Secretary confided. “She is not dangerous to me, be she ever so beautiful, and fascinating, and sinuous, and young. When will you present me?”

“When do you suggest?” Harleston asked.

“Tomorrow, at four?”

“If I can get the lady, certainly.”

“Later she’ll get me, you think!” the Secretary laughed.

“If she is so minded she’ll get you, I have not the least doubt,” Harleston shrugged.

“Then here is where you have your doubt resolved into moonshine.”

“Very well; it won’t be the first time I’ve had the pleasure of seeing moonshine. I’ll try to make the appointment for tomorrow at four.”

“Self-opinionated old mountebank,” Harleston thought, as he went down the corridor to Carpenter’s office. “I shall enjoy watching Spencer make all kinds of an ass of him. ‘You impressible chaps!—not dangerous to me!’ Oh, Lord, the patronizing bumptiousness of the man!... Have you anything for me, Carpenter?” he asked, as he entered the latter’s office.

The Fifth Assistant was sitting with his feet on his desk, a cigar in his mouth, his gaze fixed on vacancy.

“Damn your old cipher, Harleston!” he remarked, coming out of his abstraction. “It’s bothered me more than anything I’ve tackled for years. I can’t make head nor tail of it. Its very simplicity—or seeming simplicity—is what’s tantalizing. It’s in French. Of so much I feel sure, though I’ve little more than intuition to back it. As you know, this Vigenèrie, or Blocked-Out Square, cipher is particularly difficult. I’ve tried every word and phrase that’s ever been used or discovered. We have a complete record of them. None fit this case. Can you give me anything additional that will be suggestive?”

“Here’s what I’ve brought,” Harleston replied—and related, so far as they seemed pertinent, the incidents of the previous afternoon and evening.

“A French message in an English envelope, inclosing an unmounted photograph of Madeline Spencer, a well-known German Secret Agent in Paris,” Carpenter remarked slowly; “and the letter is borne by Madame Durrand to the French Ambassador. You see, my intuition was right? the letter is in French; and as it is of French authorship the key-word is French. That narrows very materially our search. Find the key-word to the Vigenèrie cipher of the French Diplomatic Service and we shall have the translation.”

“You haven’t that word?” Harleston asked.

“We’ve got quantities of keys to French ciphers, and numerous ones to the Blocked-Out Square, but they won’t translate this letter.” He took up a small book and opened it at a mark. “Here are samples of the latter: ecclesiastiques, coeur de roche, a deau eaux, fourreau, chateau d’eau, and so on. But, alas, none of them fits; the French Government has a new key. Indeed, she changes it every month or oftener; sometimes she changes it just for a single letter.”

“Then we must apply ourselves to obtaining the French key-word,” Harleston remarked. “Can you—do it?”

“Maybe we can pilfer it and maybe we can’t. At least we can make a brisk attempt. I will give orders at once. In the meantime, if you’ll keep me advised of what happens, we may be able to piece your and my information together and make a word.”

“I’ll do it!” Harleston replied and started toward the door. Half-way across the room he suddenly whirled around. “Lord, Carpenter. what an imbecile I am!” he exclaimed. “I fancy I’ve had the key-word all the while and never realized it.”

“There are too many petticoats in this case,” Carpenter shrugged.

“Never mind the petticoats!” Harleston laughed. “Get out the letter and try this phrase on it: à l’aube du jour.”

Without a word of comment, Carpenter set down the cipher message, letter by letter, and wrote over it à l’aube du jour. Then he took up a printed Blocked-Out Square and with incredible swiftness began to write the translation.

“Where did you get this ‘at the break of day,’ Harleston?” he asked as he wrote.

“Found it in Crenshaw’s pocket-book when he returned to hold me up,” Harleston replied.

“Only this isolated phrase?”

“Yes—and signed with the single initial ‘M.’”

“Hump!” Carpenter commented. “Mrs. Spencer’s name, I believe you said, is Madeline. I tell you there are too many women in this affair.”

Suddenly he threw down the pen. “What’s the use in going on with it. If you can supply a key to this key we may arrive. Such an array of unpronounceables may be Russian, it assuredly isn’t French or English. Look at it!” and he handed the translation to Harleston, who read:

AGELUMTONZUCLPMUHRHUNBARGPUH

PJICLWYIAOIWFPHLUOZFRXUFJWH

WASNVDPS

“Good Lord!” said Harleston. “I pass. Did you ever see so many consonants. I reckon my key-word isn’t the key.”

“Try being held up again,” Carpenter advised; “you may succeed the second time. If Madeline Spencer is the holdee, no telling what you’d find.”

“I’d find nothing,” Harleston rejoined.

“You’d be holding a particularly lovely and attractive bit of skirts!” Carpenter smiled.

“I don’t want to hold that at present.”

“Not even—Mrs. Clephane?”

Harleston raised his eyebrows slightly.

“What do you know about Mrs. Clephane?” he asked.

“That she’s even lovelier and more attractive than Mrs. Spencer.”

“You’ve seen her—you know her?”

“You told me,” replied Carpenter.

“I told you!—I never referred to Mrs. Clephane’s appearance.”

“Exactly: your careful reticence told me more than if you had used tons of words. I’m a reader of secret ciphers; you don’t imagine a mere individual presents much of a problem. I tell you there are too many petticoats mixed up in this affair of the cab of the sleeping horse,” Carpenter repeated. “Be careful, Harleston. Women are a menace—they spoil about everything they touch.”

“Marriage in particular?” Harleston inquired.

“Exactly!”

“A bachelor’s wisdom!” Harleston laughed.

“Why are you a bachelor?” Carpenter shrugged.

“Because I never—”

“—found the woman; or have been adroit enough to avoid her wiles,” Carpenter cut in. “And whichever it is, you’ve shown your wisdom. Don’t spoil it now, Harleston, don’t spoil it now. Millionaires and day-labourers are the only classes that have any business to marry; the rest of us chaps either can’t afford the luxury, or are not quite poor enough to be forced to marry in order to get a servant.”

“You would be popular with the suffragettes,” Harleston remarked.

“Worldly wisdom of any sort is never popular with those against whom it warns.”

“An aphorism!” Harleston laughed.

“Aphorism be damned; it’s just plain horse sense. Don’t do it, old man, don’t do it!”

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t fall in love with Mrs. Clephane.”

“Good Lord!” Harleston exclaimed.

“Good Lord all you want, you’re on the verge and preparing to leap in—and you know it. Let some other man be the life-saver, Harleston. You’re much too fine a chap to waste yourself in foolishness.”

“And all this,” Harleston expostulated with mock solemnity, “because I neglected to include a description of Mrs. Clephane.”

“Neglected with deliberation. And with you that is more significant than if you had detailed most minutely her manifold attractions. Look here, Harleston, do you want this translation for yourself or for Mrs. Clephane?”

“I want the translation because the Secretary of State wants it,” Harleston replied quietly.

“Oh, don’t become chilly,” Carpenter returned good-naturedly. “If you permit, I’ll tell you something about a Mrs. Clephane—queer name Clephane, and rather unusual—whom I used to see in Paris,” glancing languidly at Harleston, “several years ago. Want to hear it?”

“Sure!” said Harleston. “Drive on and keep driving. You won’t drive over me.”

“It isn’t a great deal,” Carpenter went on, slowly tearing the consonant collection into bits, “and perchance it wasn’t your Mrs. Clephane; but her name, and her beauty and charm, and Paris, and some other inferences I drew, led me to suspect that—” He completed the sentence by a wave of his hand. “She was Robert Clephane’s wife—yes, I see in your face that she is your Mrs. Clephane—and he led her a merry life, though if rumour lied not she kept up with the pace he set. I saw her frequently and she was as—well you have not overdrawn the ‘reticence picture.’ Shall I continue?”

Harleston smiled and nodded.

“Doubtless you already know the tale,” Carpenter remarked.

“I know only what Mrs. Clephane has told me,” Harleston replied.

The Fifth Assistant Secretary picked up a ruler and sighted carefully along the edge.

“I seem to be in wrong, old man,” he said. “Please forget that I ever said it or anything—you understand.”

“My dear fellow, don’t be an ass!” Harleston laughed. “I’m not sensitive about the lady; I never saw her until last night.”

“Quite long enough for a man disposed to make a fool of himself—if the lady is a beauty.”

“I’m disposed to hear more from you, if you care to tell me,” Harleston replied. “However, jesting aside, Carpenter, what do you know? Mrs. Clephane is something of a puzzle to me, but I have concluded to accept her story; yet I’m always open to conviction, and if I’m wrong now’s the time to enlighten me—the State comes first, you know.”

“Are you viewing Mrs. Clephane simply as a circumstance in the affair of the cipher letter?” Carpenter asked.

“Certainly!” said Harleston.

“Then I’ll give you what I heard. It’s not much, and it may be false; it’s for you to judge, in the light of all that you know concerning her, whether or not it affects her credibility. Mrs. Clephane went with a notoriously fast set in Paris, and her reputation was somewhat cloudy.”

“I know of that,” returned Harleston, “also that Clephane was a roué, and generally an exceedingly rotten lot.”

“Precisely—and her conduct as to him may be quite justifiable; yet nevertheless it weakens her credibility; puts her story as to the letter under suspicion. And there is one thing more: Clephane, you know, was killed in an aeroplane smash. Did Mrs. Clephane tell you anything as to it?”

“Merely referred to it.”

“Well, at a dinner the night before, he effervesced that his wife had repeatedly tried to poison him, and had told him only that evening that she hoped the flight of the morrow would be his last, and that he would fall so far it would be useless to dig for his remains. At the aviation field the following day he appeared queer, and his friends urged him not to try the flight; but he waved them aside, with the remark that maybe Mrs. Clephane had drugged him and at last would win out. His fall came a trifle later. Suspicion followed, of course.”

“How do you know all this?” Harleston asked.

“From a man who was one of his intimates, and has reformed; and from having myself been in the aviation field the day of the tragedy.”

“You heard Clephane’s remark?”

“I did.”

“Hum!” said Harleston slowly. “A man of Clephane’s habits will accuse anyone of anything at certain times. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t blame Mrs. Clephane, nor any other woman, for chucking such a husband out of the boat. It’s contrary to the Acts of Assembly in such cases made and provided, but it’s natural justice and amply justifiable.”

“You don’t credit it?” Carpenter asked.

“I can’t. Moreover, didn’t she change instantly her course of life and disappear from the gay world?”

“I believe that is so.”

“And hasn’t she remained disappeared?”

Carpenter nodded.

“Then I’m inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. I’ll trust her, until I’ve seen something to warrant distrust—bearing in mind, however, what you have just told me, and the possibility of my being mistaken. I reckon I can veer quickly enough if—”

The telephone rang. Carpenter picked up the receiver.

“Yes, Mr. Harleston is here,” he replied, passing the receiver across.

“Yes,” said Harleston. “Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Clephane.... Very nice, indeed.... Be delighted!... In ten minutes, I’ll be there. Good-bye.” He pushed back the instrument. “Mrs. Clephane has telephoned that she must see me at once. Meanwhile—the key-word, my friend.”

Carpenter drummed on the table, and frowned at the door that had closed behind Harleston.

“The man’s bewitched,” he muttered. “However I threw a slight scare into him, and maybe it will make him pause; he is not quite devoid of sense. Bah! All women are vampires.”