IV—Crenshaw
Harleston lay for a few minutes, brows drawn in thought; then he arose, crossed to the telephone, and took down the receiver.
“Good-morning, Miss Williams,” he said. “Has it been a long night?”
“Pretty long, Mr. Harleston,” the girl answered. “There hasn’t been a thing doing for two hours.”
“Haven’t three gentlemen just left the building?”
“No one has passed in or out since you came in, Mr. Harleston.”
“Then I must be mistaken.”
“You certainly are. It’s so lonely down here, Mr. Harleston, you can pick up chunks of it and carry off.”
“Been asleep?”
“I don’t think!” she laughed. “I’m not minded to lose my job. Suppose some peevish woman wanted a doctor and she couldn’t raise me; do you think I’d last longer than the morning and the manager’s arrival? Nay! Nay!”
“It’s an unsympathetic world, isn’t it, Miss Williams?”
“Only when you’re down—otherwise it’s not half bad. Say, maybe here’s one of your men now; he’s walking down. Shall I stop him?”
“No, no, let him go. When he’s gone, tell me if he’s slender, or stout, or has a moustache and imperial.”
“Sure, I will.”
Through the telephone Harleston could hear someone descend the stairs, cross the lobby, and the revolving doors swing around.
The next moment, the operator’s voice came with a bit of laugh.
“Are you there, Mr. Harleston?”
“I’m here.”
“Well, your man was a woman—and she was accidentally deliberately careful that I shouldn’t see her face.”
“H-u-m!” said Harleston. “Young or old?”
“She’s got ripples enough on her gown to be sixty, and figure enough to be twenty.”
“Slender?”
“Yes; a perfect peach!”
“How’s her walk?”
“As if the ground was all hers.”
“I see!” Harleston replied. “What would you, as a woman, make her age—being indifferent and strictly truthful?”
“Not over twenty-eight—probably less!” she laughed. “And I’ve a notion she’s some to look at, Mr. Harleston.”
“You mean she’s a beauty?”
“Sure.”
“Call me if she comes back; also if any of the men go out. They are strangers to the Collingwood so you will know them.”
“Very good, Mr. Harleston.”
He hung up the receiver and went back to bed.
If no one had come in and no one had left the Collingwood since his return, the men must have been in the building—unless they had come by another way than the main entrance; which was the only entrance open after midnight. If the former was the case, then someone on the outside must have communicated to them as to him.
With a muttered curse on his stupidity, he returned to the telephone.
“Miss Williams,” said he, “there has been a queer occurrence in the building since two A.M., and I should like to know confidentially whether any one has communicated with an apartment since one thirty.”
The girl knew that Harleston was on intimate terms with the State Department, and with the police, and she answered at once.
“Save only yours, not a single in or out call has been registered since twelve fifty-two when apartment No. 401 was connected for a short while.”
“Who has No. 401?”
“A Mr. and Mrs. Chartrand. It’s one of the transient apartments; and they have occupied it only a few days.”
“You didn’t by any chance overhear—”
“The conversation?” she laughed. “Sure, I heard it; anything to put in the time during the night. It was very brief, however; something about him being here, and to meet him at ten in the morning.”
“Who were talking?”
“Mrs. Chartrand and a man—at least I took it to be Mrs. Chartrand; it was a woman’s voice.”
“Did they mention where they were to meet, or the name of the man?”
“No. The very vagueness of the talk made its impression on me at that time of night. In the daytime, I would not have even listened.”
“I understand,” said Harleston. “Call me up, will you, if there are any developments as to the men I’ve described—or the conversation. Meanwhile, Miss Williams, not a word.”
“Not a word, Mr. Harleston—and thank you.”
“What for?”
“For treating me as a human being. Most persons treat me like an automaton or a bit of dirt. You’re different; most of the men are not so bad; it’s the women, Mr. Harleston, the women! Good-night, sir. I’ll call you if anything turns up.”
“All of which shows,” reflected Harleston, as he returned to bed, “that the telephone people are right in asking you to smile when you say ‘hello.’”
It was a very interesting condition of affairs that confronted him.
The episode of the cab of the sleeping horse was leading on to—what?
Three men in the Collingwood knew of the occurrence, yet no one had come in or gone out, and no one had telephoned. Moreover, they also knew of Harleston’s part in the matter. The girl had not lied, he was sure; therefore they must have gained entrance from the outside; and, possibly, were now hiding in the Chartrand apartment—if the telephone message to No. 401 had to do with the occupant of the deserted cab and the lost letter. Yet how to connect things? And why bother to connect them?
He did not care for the vanished lady of the cab—he had the letter and the photograph; and because of them he was to have a talk with an interesting young woman at five o’clock that afternoon. The cipher letter, which was the much desired quantity, was safely across the hall, waiting to be turned over to Carpenter, the expert of the State Department, for translation. Meanwhile, what concerned Harleston was the photograph of Madeline Spencer and her connection with the case—and to know if the United States was concerned in the affair.
At this point he turned over and calmly went to sleep. Tomorrow was another day.
He was aroused by a vigorous pounding on the corridor door. It was seven-thirty o’clock. He yawned and responded to the summons—which grew more insistent with every pound.
It was Stuart—the envelope and the flowers in his hand.
“Scarcely heard your gentle tap,” Harleston remarked. “Why don’t you knock like a man?”
“Here’s your damn bouquet, also your envelope,” said Stuart, “You probably don’t recall that you left them with me about two this morning. I do.”
“I’m mighty much obliged, old man,” Harleston responded. “You did me a great service by taking them—I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Hump!” grunted Stuart. “I hope you’ll come around to tell me at a more seasonable hour. So long!”
Harleston closed the door, and was half-way across the living-room when there came another knock.
Tossing the envelope and the faded roses on a nearby table, he stepped back and swung open the door.
Instantly, a revolver was shoved into his face, and Crenshaw sprang into the hall and closed the door.
“I thought as much!” he exclaimed. “I’ll take that envelope, my friend, and be quick about it.”
“What envelope?” Harleston inquired pleasantly, never seeming to notice the menacing automatic.
“Come, no trifling!” Crenshaw snapped. “The envelope that the man from the apartment across the corridor just handed you.”
Harleston laughed. “You are obsessed with the notion that I have something of yours, Mr. Crenshaw.”
“The letter!” exclaimed Crenshaw.
“That envelope is addressed to me, sir; it’s not the one you seem to want.”
“I suppose the flowers are also addressed to you,” Crenshaw derided, advancing. “Get back, sir,—I’ll get the envelope myself.”
“My dear man,” Harleston expostulated, retreating slowly toward the door of the living-room, “I’ll let you see the envelope; I’ve not the slightest objection. Put up your gun, man; I’m not dangerous.”
“You’re not so long as I’ve got the drop on you!” Crenshaw laughed sneeringly. “Get back, man, get back; to the far side of the table—the far side, do you hear—while I examine the envelope yonder beside the roses. The roses are very familiar, Mr. Harleston. I’ve seen them before.”
Harleston, retreating hastily, backed into a chair and fell over it.
“All right, stay there, then!” said Crenshaw, and reached for the letter.
As he did so, Harleston’s slippered foot shot out and drove hard into the other’s stomach. With a grunt Crenshaw doubled up from pain. The next instant, Harleston caught his wrist and the struggle was on.
It was not for long, however. Crenshaw was outweighed and outstrengthed; and Harleston quickly bore him to the floor, where a sharp blow on the fingers sent the automatic flying.
“If it were not for spoiling the devil’s handiwork, my fine friend, I’d smash your face,” Harleston remarked.
“Smash it!” the other panted. “I’ll promise—to smash yours—at the first opportunity.”
“Which latter smashing won’t be until some years later,” Harleston retorted, as he turned Crenshaw over. Bearing on him with all his weight, he loosed his own pajama-cord and tied the man’s hands behind him. Next he kicked off his pajama trousers, and with them bound Crenshaw’s ankles. Then he dragged him to a chair and plunked him into it, securing him there by a strap.
“It’s scarcely necessary to gag you,” he remarked pleasantly. “In your case, an outcry would be embarrassing only to yourself.”
“What do you intend to do with me?” Crenshaw demanded.
“Ultimately, you mean. I have not decided. It may depend on what I find.”
“Find?”
Harleston nodded. “In your pockets.”
“You dog!” Crenshaw burst out, straining at his bonds. “You miserable whelp! What do you think to find?”
“I’m not thinking,” Harleston smiled; “it isn’t necessary to speculate when one has all the stock, you know.” Then his face hardened.
“One who comes into another’s residence in the dead of night, revolver in hand and violence in his intention, can expect no mercy and should receive none. You’re an ordinary burglar, Crenshaw and as such the law will view you if I turn you over to the police. You think I found a letter in an abandoned cab at 18th and Massachusetts Avenue early this morning, and instead of coming like a respectable man and asking if I have it and proving your property—do you hear, proving your property—you play the burglar and highwayman. Evidently the letter isn’t yours, and you haven’t any right or claim to it. I have been injected into this matter; and having been injected I intend to ascertain what can be found from your papers. Who you are; what your object; who are concerned beside yourself; and anything else I can discover. You see, you have the advantage of me; you know who I am, and, I presume, my business; I know nothing of you, nor of your business, nor what this all means; though I might guess some things. It’s to obviate guessing, as far as possible, that I am about to examine such evidence as you may have with you.”
Crenshaw was so choked with his anger that for a moment he merely sputtered—then he relapsed into furious silence, his dark eyes glowing with such hate that Harleston paused and asked a bit curiously:
“Why do you take it so hard? It’s all in the game—and you’ve lost. You’re a poor sort of sport, Crenshaw. You’d be better at ping-pong or croquet. This matter of—letters, and cabs, is far beyond your calibre; it’s not in your class.”
“We haven’t reached the end of the matter, my adroit friend,” gritted Crenshaw. “My turn will come, never fear.”
“A far day, monsieur, a far day!” said Harleston lightly. “Meanwhile, with your permission, we will have a look at the contents of your pockets. First, your pocketbook.”
He unbuttoned the other’s coat, put in his hand, and drew out the book.
“Attend, please,” said he, “so you can see that I replace every article.”
Crenshaw’s only answer was a contemptuous shrug.
A goodly wad of yellow backs of large denominations, and some visiting cards, no two of which bore the same name, were the contents of the pocketbook.
“You must have had some difficulty in keeping track of yourself,” Harleston remarked, as he made a note of the names.
Then he returned the bills and the cards to the book, and put it back in Crenshaw’s pocket.
“It’s unwise to carry so much money about you,” he remarked; “it induces spending, as well as provokes attack.”
“What’s that to you?” replied Crenshaw angrily.
“Nothing whatever—it’s merely a word of advice to one who seems to need it. Now for the other pockets.”
The coat yielded nothing additional; the waist-coat, only a few matches and an open-faced gold watch, which Harleston inspected rather carefully both inside and out; the trousers, a couple of handkerchiefs with the initial C in the corner, some silver, and a small bunch of keys—and in the fob pocket a crumpled note, with the odour of carnations clinging to it.
Harleston glanced at Crenshaw as he opened the note—and caught a sly look in his eyes.
“Something doing, Crenshaw?” he queried.
Another shrug was Crenshaw’s answer—and the sly look grew into a sly smile.
The note, apparently in a woman’s handwriting, was in French, and contained five words and an initial:
À l’aube du jour.
M.
Harleston looked at it long enough to fix in his mind the penmanship and to mark the little eccentricities of style. Then he folded it and put it in Crenshaw’s outside pocket.
“Thank you!” said he, with an amused smile.
“You forgot to look in the soles of my shoes?” Crenshaw jeered.
“Someone else will do that,” Harleston replied.
“Someone else?” Crenshaw inflected.
“The police always search prisoners, I believe.”
“My God, you don’t intend to turn me over to the police?” Crenshaw exclaimed.
“Why not?” And when Crenshaw did not reply: “Wherein are you different from any other felon taken red-handed—except that you were taken twice in the same night, indeed?”
“Think of the scandal that will ensue!” Crenshaw cried.
“It won’t affect me!” Harleston laughed.
“Won’t affect you?” the other retorted. “Maybe it won’t—and maybe it will!”
“We shall try it,” Harleston remarked, and picked up the telephone.
Crenshaw watched him with a snarling sneer on his lips.
Harleston gave the private number of the police superintendent. He himself answered.
“Major Ranleigh, this is Harleston. I’d like to have a man report to me at the Collingwood at once.—No; one will be enough, thank you. Have him come right up to my apartment. Good-bye!—Now if you’ll excuse me for a brief time, Mr. Crenshaw, I’ll get into some clothes—while you think over the question whether you will explain or go to prison.”
“You will not dare!” Crenshaw laughed mockingly. “Your State Department won’t stand for it a moment when they hear of it—which they’ll do at ten o’clock, if I’m missing.”
“Let me felicitate you on your forehandedness,” Harleston called from the next room. “It’s admirably planned, but not effective for your release.”
“Hell!” snorted Crenshaw, and relapsed into silence.
Presently Harleston appeared, dressed for the morning.
“Why not spread your cards on the table, Crenshaw?” he asked. “I did stumble on the deserted cab this morning, wholly by accident; I was on my way here. I did find in it a letter and these roses, and I brought them here. I don’t know if you know what that letter contained—I do. It’s in cipher—and will be turned over to the State Department for translation. What I want to know is: first—what is the message of the letter, if you know; second—who was the woman in the cab, and the facts of the episode; third—what governments, if any, are concerned.”
“You’re amazingly moderate in your demands,” Crenshaw sarcasmed; “so moderate, indeed, that I would acquiesce at once but for the fact that I’m wholly ignorant of the contents of the letter. The name of the woman, and the episode of the cab are none of your affair; nor do the names of parties, whether personal or government, concern you in the least.”
“Very well. We’ll close up the cards and play the game. The first thing in the game, as I said a moment ago, Crenshaw, is not to squeal when you are in a hole and losing.”
A knock came at the door. Harleston crossed and swung it open.
A young man—presumably a business man, quietly-dressed—stood at attention and saluted. If he saw the bound man in the chair, his eyes never showed it.
“Ah, Whiteside,” Harleston remarked. “I’m glad it is you who was sent. Come in.... You will remain here and guard this man; you will prevent any attempt at escape or rescue, even though you are obliged to use the utmost force. I’m for down-town now; and I will communicate with you at the earliest moment. Meanwhile, the man is in your charge.”
“Yes, Mr. Harleston!” Whiteside answered.
“I want some breakfast!” snapped Crenshaw.
“The officer will order from the cafe whatever you wish,” Harleston replied; and picking up his stick he departed, the letter and the photograph in the sealed envelope in his inside pocket.
As he went out, he smiled pleasantly at Crenshaw.