CHAPTER XII

TWO-THIRTY A. M.

Few men or women of sympathetic nature, and gifted with ordinary powers

of observation, can go through life without learning, at some time or

other in the course of their careers, that circumstances wholly beyond

human control can display on occasion a fiendish faculty of converting

patent honesty into apparent dishonesty--and that which is true of

motive holds equally good in the case of conduct.

The three men standing breathless and unmoved on some unknown wharf on

the left bank of the Hudson might fairly be described as superlatively

honest persons, nor had they done any act which could be construed as

wrongful by the most captious critic; yet McCulloch's concealment of

the lamp suggested something thievish and illicit, and, though he alone

could give a valid reason for exercising extreme discretion, because he

realized, better than the others, what a choice morsel this adventure

would supply to the press if ever it became known, both Curtis and

Devar listened like himself with bated breath to the oaths and

ejaculations which came from the after part of the moored vessel.

"Howly war!" cried one of the startled crew. "See what's butted into

us--the divvle's own battherin'-ram av a scow, an' wid an ilegant

lanthern shtuck on her mangy hide, if ye plaze."

A ship's lamp bobbed up and down in the gloom, and another voice said

gruffly:

"Mighty good job we had those fenders out, or she would have knocked a

hole in us. She seems to be wedged in good and hard under our mooring

rope; but shin over, Pat, an' make her fast. Somebody owns the brute,

an' there'll be damages to pay for this, an' p'raps salvage as well."

The Irishman dropped down into the barge. The silent trio on the quay

heard him walking to the lamp, and saw its dull orb of radiance lifted

from the deck.

"Begob, but this is a bit of a fairy tale," came the comment. "Here is

none o' yer tin-cint Standard Ile prapositions, but a rale dandy uv a

lamp, fit for a lady's cabin on Vandherbilt's yacht. An', for the luv

o' Hiven, look at the make uv it, wid a handle where the bottom ought

to be, an' all polished up like the pewther in Casey's saloon."

"Oh, get a move on, Pat, an' tie her up," said the other voice. "It's

the Lord knows what o'clock, an' we've a long day before us to-morrow."

The lamp moved astern, and the Irishman investigated matters further.

"There's bin black wur-rk here, George," he shouted. "The moorin' rope

nivver bruk. It was cut."

A sharp hiss of breath between McCulloch's teeth betrayed the stress of

his emotions. To think that he, a smart roundsman of the Broadway

squad, should have been bested so thoroughly by a miserable alien

chauffeur! The man had merely slipped over the edge of the quay, and

clung like a limpet to the rough baulks of timber which faced it; when

his pursuers were safely disposed of on board the barge, one cut of a

sharp knife had sent them adrift by the stern, while the forward rope,

released of any strain, had probably uncoiled itself from a stanchion

with the diabolical ingenuity which inanimate objects can display at

unlooked-for moments.

"Fling a coil uv line here," continued the speaker. "This fag ind is

no good, at all at all."

The thud of a falling rope, and various grunts and comments from the

Irishman, showed that the barge was being secured. Still the three

waited. The primary display of secrecy, the instinct to remain unseen,

had passed, but there was nothing to be gained by entering into a long

and difficult explanation with the ship's hands, while it would be a

simple matter to recoup the owner of the barge for any charge which

might be levied on him for injury to the vessel, provided the liability

rested with him and not with others.

Swearing and grumbling, Pat stumbled along the quay, carrying the lamp.

He passed within a few feet of the motionless group, and soon they

heard him and his mate descending the companionway to their bunks.

"Now for a light," said the policeman, "and let's get out of this!"

Taking heed not to turn the lamp toward the ship, lest their movements

should be overheard and a head pop up out of the hatch, he led the way

quietly to the rear of the wharf. A rough road climbed the hill to the

left, and, as this direction offered the only probable means of

regaining the car, they took it.

After a long climb they reached a better road, which ultimately brought

them into a main thoroughfare. Then Curtis bethought him of looking at

his watch, and was astonished to find that the hour was half-past two

o'clock.

"By Jove!" he cried. "We must have consumed fully half an hour over

that trip. I wonder whether your man has waited, Devar; or would he

give us up as lost, and go home?"

"What! Arthur return alone, and tell my aunt that the last he saw of

me I was adrift on the Hudson River in a barge with a policeman and a

swashbuckler from Pekin? Not much!"

"I hope you are right, sir," said McCulloch. "Even when we reach New

York I must trouble you two gentlemen to come to the station-house and

report the whole affair, as I was due there an hour ago, and the entire

precinct will have been scoured for news of me by this time."

Devar laughed loudly.

"I don't want to alarm you, McCulloch--not that you are of the neurotic

habit, judging by the way you took a chance of having a hole bored

through you while searching that blessed barge--but if you believe you

can frame a cut-and-dried programme during the time you have retained

John D. Curtis's services as guide, philosopher, and friend, you are

hugging a delusion. I started out from a happy home last evening

intending to pick up a friendless stranger and show him the orthodox

sights of New York. Gee whizz! Look at me now! I missed John D. by a

few minutes, but found myself gaping with the crowd at the scene of a

murder in which he had figured heavily. Since then I have helped to

break open hotel doors, discovered a villain tied and gagged by other

villains, stood on my head in Morris Siegelman's joint, started a riot

in East Broadway, helped a detective to commit a larceny, cheeked a

British lord, and scoffed at a Hungarian prince, to say nothing of the

present racket. So don't you go making plans for the night yet a

while, McCulloch, because John D. will keep you busy without any call

for you exercising your brain cells in that respect."

The roundsman did not try to grasp the inner significance of this

rigmarole. He was unfeignedly glad to have escaped from an awkward

predicament.

"Anyhow," he said briefly, "if it comes to the worst I can ring up my

captain from the nearest station-house, and at least he will know where

I am."

"Don't be too sure of that, either. Suppose you had 'phoned your

captain before you went on board the barge, would he be any the wiser

now? Just to prove the exceeding wisdom of my remarks, do you know

where you are at the present moment? Because _I_ don't."

The policeman stopped short, and gazed ahead with a new anxiety. The

mist was thinner here, and pin-points of light from a row of lamps

showed in a straight line for a considerable distance. For an instant

there was an embarrassed pause, because all three failed to remember

covering any similar stretch of level road after descending the hill

and turning into the lane leading to the Hudson.

"Did you notice a few minutes since that a low wall bounded the road on

both sides?" said Curtis, breaking a somewhat strained silence.

Yes, each had seen it.

"Well, I am inclined to believe," he went on, "that that wall formed

part of an accommodation bridge, under which the car passed in the dark

without our being aware of it. Indeed, I feel confident that if we

turn back along this main road, we shall meet our lane on the right,

and about three hundred yards from this very point."

They agreed to make the experiment, and Devar grinned broadly when the

lane presented itself exactly as Curtis had predicted.

"What did I tell you?" he cackled to the roundsman. "John D. is a

Chinese necromancer. I'm getting used to his tricks, and you will

catch the habit in another hour or two. By four o'clock you won't be

the least bit surprised if you find yourself flying across the New

Jersey flats in an aeroplane, or having a cup of hot coffee on board

the pilot steamer off Sandy Hook."

"I'll risk either of those unlikely things, sir, if we find your car

where we left it," They stepped out briskly. When all was said and

done, none of the three wished to be stranded in some unknown byway of

Westchester County at that ungodly hour, and their relief was great

when the stark outline of the crane became visible in an otherwise

impenetrable wall of darkness.

"By Jove! The car is here all right," crowed Devar joyously.

In the next few strides the automobile came in sight, the blaze of its

headlights casting a cheerful glow over the wharf. Brodie was standing

where the barge had been moored, and gazing blankly at the river; he

turned when he heard their footsteps, and ran quickly to the car.

"It's O. K., Arthur," cried Devar, realizing that the chauffeur might

be dreading an attack from the rear, "little Willie has returned, and

won't go boating again in a derelict barge at two o'clock in the

morning if he can help it."

"Oh, it's you, sir!" came the answer in a tone of vast relief. "My,

but I'm glad to see you! I didn't know what to do. I thought you were

safe enough, because I heard your voices as you drifted away, and I

fancied you might make the shore again lower down, but it seemed to be

a hopeless job to go in search of you, so, after things had calmed down

a bit, I decided to stop right here."

After the first gasp of excitement, there had crept into the placid

Brodie's voice a note of quiet jubilation which hinted at developments.

"Did anything happen after we sailed away?" asked Devar.

"Did you see anyone?" demanded the policeman.

"Things were quiet as the grave for quite a time after you gentlemen

disappeared," said Brodie, speaking with the unctuous slowness of a man

who has been vouchsafed the opportunity of his life and has grabbed it

with both hands.

"Something _did_ occur, then?" put in Devar impatiently.

"Nothing to speak of, sir--at first," came the irritating answer. "I

watched you go on board the barge, and I noticed her edging out into

the river, and it was easy enough to know that none of you had cast her

off, because what you said showed that you were even more surprised

than I was. So, sez I to meself, 'Arthur, me boy, barges don't untie

themselves from wharves in that casual sort of way, and at just the

right minute, too, for anyone who wanted to dispose of a cop,' begging

your pardon, Mr. Policeman, but that was the line of argument I had

with meself."

"Try the accelerator, Arthur," groaned Devar.

"If ever I meet with a bit of an accident, sir, I always pull up and

plan the wheel-marks; I carry a tape for the purpose, and it saves a

lot of hard swearing in court afterwards." Brodie spoke seriously, and

Devar vowed that he would interrupt no more, since he merely succeeded

in stimulating the man's torpid wits.

Even now, the chauffeur waited to allow his philosophy to sink into

minds which might prove unreceptive. Finding that there was no

likelihood of debate, he went on:

"It struck me, too, that a feller who didn't hesitate about shoving a

good car into a river must be a rank tough, the kind of character who

would jump at the chance of plugging me with a bullet, or two, for that

matter, and hiking off with the car, without anybody being the wiser,

so I nipped out from behind the wheel, and, taking care to keep away

from the light, crept in behind that pile of rock there," and he nodded

to the mass of dressed stone which filled one end of the wharf.

He waited, as though to make sure that they appreciated his

generalship. Devar's teeth grated, and McCulloch stirred uneasily, but

no one spoke.

"You'll notice that it is only a few feet away," he said, measuring the

distance with a thoughtful eye, "but, to make sure of reaching anybody

who might try to monkey with the car, I groped around until I had found

two half bricks. Then I waited. By that time, which was really less

than it takes me to tell you about it, there wasn't a sound to be heard

but the lapping of the river. The last thing I heard you say, Mr.

Howard, was----"

"I used language which no self-respecting chauffeur could possibly

repeat," broke in Devar despairingly.

"That's as may be, sir. Circumstances alter cases, as you will see

before I've done. Well, I listened to the river, which resembled

nothing in all the world so much as the sobbing of a child, but no one

stirred for such a time that I began to feel stiff, and I was thinking

that I might be acting like a fool for my pains when a head popped up

over the edge of the wharf."

Obviously, this sentence demanded a dramatic pause, and Brodie knew his

business. Perhaps he expected cries of horror from his audience, but

none was forthcoming, so, with a sigh, he continued:

"That cured the stiffness, gentlemen, I can assure you. I balanced one

of the half bricks in my left hand--I'm a left-handed man in many

things--and watched the head, while it was easy to see that the head

watched the car. 'Now,' sez I to meself, 'that's the whelp who

mistreated a car which had served him well, and he's reckoning in his

own mind that my car would suit his needs just as well as the one he

has lost.' I do believe I read that man's mind correctly. He might

have said out loud: 'That party of sports were muts. They're all

aboard the Hudson River liner, chauffeur and all.' I beg your pardon,

gentlemen, if I have put it awkwardly, but I am sort of feeling my way

towards the feller's sentiments, groping in the dark, as you might say."

Notwithstanding his effort at self-restraint, Devar felt that he must

speak or explode.

"Go right ahead, Arthur," he said. "Explain the position thoroughly.

The fog is lifting, and we have heaps of time before sunrise."

"The whole affair is a mighty queer business, sir," said Brodie

seriously. "The roundsman here will tell you how careful one has to be

in such matters. I have had a law-case or two in my time, and them

lawyers turn you inside out if you begin romancing. For instance, what

I've just told you isn't evidence. The man said nothing; neither did

I. We played a fine game of cat and mouse, only it happened that I was

the cat. . . . Well, it is getting late, so I'll get on with the

story. The head didn't budge for quite a while, but at last it made a

move, and soon the identical chauffeur who hit up the pace from 23rd

Street climbed on to the wharf and dodged in behind the crane. He had

something in his right hand, too, that I didn't like the look of, so I

gripped my chunk of brick mighty hard. This time he didn't wait so

long, but crept forward like a stage murderer, peeping this way and

that, but making for the car. Once he looked straight at where I was

crouching, and I was scared stiff, because a brick ain't any fair match

for one of them new-fangled pistols at six yards or so; but I guess he

was a bit nervy himself, and he didn't make out anything unusual in my

direction. Then he dodged right round the car to the back, and

returned on the side nearest to me. I suppose he reckoned all was safe

by that time, so he took hold of the crank and began to start the

engine. 'Now or never!' says I to meself, so up I gets, and my knee

joints cracked like--well, they cracked so loud that only the turning

of the crank stopped him from hearing them. With that, I let drive

with the half brick, and caught him square in the small of the back.

Down he went with a yell, and me on top of him. I had the second half

brick ready to batter his skull in if he showed fight, but the first

one had laid him out sufficient for my purpose, which was to get hold

of this."

Brodie's hand dived into a pocket, and he produced a particularly

vicious looking automatic pistol.

Then McCulloch said imperatively:

"You've got him. Where is he?"

Brodie was really an artist. Some men would have smirked with triumph,

but he merely jerked a thumb casually toward the automobile:

"In there!" he said.

The policeman ran to a door and wrenched it open. He turned the rays

of the lamp which he still held in his hand on to a figure, lying

kneeling on the floor in an extraordinary attitude. From a white face

a pair of gleaming eyes met his in a glance of hate and fear, but no

words came from the thin lips set in a line, and a moment's scrutiny

showed that the captive was bound hand and foot. Indeed, hands and

feet were fastened together with a stout cord, which had been passed

around the man's neck subsequently, so that he was in some danger of

suffocation if he endeavored to wriggle loose, or even straighten his

back, which was bent over his heels.

"He's all right," said Brodie, who had strolled leisurely after the

others. "I told him I was taking no chances, and was compelled to make

him uncomfortable, but that he wouldn't choke if he kept quiet. Of

course, he has had a rather trying wait, but I couldn't help that,

could I?"

"We give you best," growled McCulloch. "Did you stiffen him with the

half brick, then, that you were able to hunt around for a rope?"

"That helped some, but I also remarked that, if he moved, this toy of

his would surely go off by accident, and he seemed to think it might

hurt."

McCulloch held the lamp close to the livid, twisted face.

"Is this Anatole?" he said suddenly.

"Yes," said Curtis, with instant appreciation of his adroitness.

They were rewarded by the scowl which convulsed the mask-like face, and

terror set its unmistakable seal there. A harsh metallic voice came

from the huddled-up form.

"Cut this d--d rope, and let me stand on my feet!"

"There's no special hurry," said the policeman coolly. "We won't

object to making things more pleasant for you if you promise to take us

straight to your Hungarian friends."

Again that wave of dread which betokens the quailing heart of the

detected felon swept over the man's features, but he only swore again,

and protested that they had no right to torture him.

McCulloch saw that he had to deal with a hardened criminal, from whom

no conscience stricken confession would be forthcoming. He gave the

lamp to Curtis, stooped, and lifted the prisoner out on to the ground.

Untying the rope, except at the man's ankles, he brought the listless

hands in front, and placed a pair of handcuffs on the wrists.

"Now," he said, "if you have any sense left, you'll keep quiet and

enjoy the ride back to New York."

"Why am I arrested? I have a right to know?" The words were yelped at

him rather than spoken.

"All in good time, Anatole. You'll have everything explained to you

fair and square."

"That is not my name. That's a Frenchman's name."

"It fitted you all right in 27th Street a few hours ago."

"I was not there. I can prove it."

"Of course you can. You'd be a poor sort of crook if you couldn't.

But what's this?" the roundsman had found some letters and a pocketbook

in an inner pocket of the chauffeur's closely buttoned jacket--"M.

Anatole Labergerie, care of Morris Siegelman, saloon-keeper, East

Broadway, N. Y.," he said. "You know someone named Anatole, anyhow, so

we are warm, as the kids say," he went on sarcastically.

"I say nothing. I admit nothing. I demand the presence of a lawyer,"

was the defiant reply.

"You'll see a heap of lawyers before the State of New York has no

further use for you. Now, I'll take you to a nice, quiet hotel for the

night. In with you. . . . Mind the step. Let me give you a friendly

hand. . . . No, that seat, if you please, close up in the corner.

I'll go next. Mr. Curtis, you don't object to being squeezed a little,

I'm sure, though the three of us will crowd the back seat, and if the

gentleman who says nothing and admits nothing will only change his

mind, and tell us exactly how he has spent a rather exciting evening,

the story will help pass the journey quite pleasantly."

But Anatole Labergerie, whose accent was that of a Frenchman with a

very complete knowledge of English, had evidently determined on a

policy of silence, and no word crossed his lips during the greater part

of the long run to the police station-house in 30th Street, in which

precinct, the 23rd, the murder had occurred, and to which McCulloch was

attached.

His presence in the car acted as an effectual damper on conversation in

so far as Curtis and Devar were concerned. If their suspicions were

justified, he was a principal in an atrocious crime, and mere

propinquity with such a wretch induced a feeling of loathing comparable

only with that shrinking from physical contact to which mankind yields

when confronted with leprosy in its final forbidding form.

But McCulloch was jubilant. He regarded his prisoner with the almost

friendly interest taken in his quarry by the slayer of wild beasts to

whose rifle has fallen some peculiarly rare and dangerous "specimen."

He enlivened the road with anecdotes of famous criminals, and each

story invariably concluded with a facetious reference to the "chair" or

a "lifer." Once or twice he gave details of the breaking up of some

notorious gang owing to information extracted from one of its minor

members, who, in consequence, either escaped punishment or received a

light sentence; but the captive remained mute and apparently

indifferent, whereupon Curtis, who had been revolving in his mind

certain elements in a singularly complex mystery, broke fresh ground by

saying:

"The strangest feature of this affair is probably unknown to you, Mr.

McCulloch. To all intents and purposes, the men who killed the

journalist were acting in concert with a Frenchman named Jean de

Courtois, and their common object was to prevent a marriage arranged

for last night. Yet this same de Courtois was found gagged and bound

in his room at the Central Hotel shortly before midnight. Someone had

maltreated him badly, and the wonder is he was not killed outright."

Now, the roundsman, wedged close against the prisoner, felt the man

give an almost unconscious and quite involuntary start when de Courtois

was mentioned, and there could be no question that he was straining his

ears to catch each syllable Curtis uttered.

Nudging the latter, McCulloch said:

"So it was a near thing that two weddings were not interfered with last

night, sir?"

"No, not two, only one. I married the lady."

"You did!"

The policeman's undoubted bewilderment was convincingly genuine, but,

despite his surprise, he was alert to catch the slightest move or sign

of emotion on the part of the captive.

"Yes," said Curtis. "I married her before half-past eight."

"Then you must have possessed some knowledge of the parties mixed up in

this business?"

"No, not in the sense you have in mind. I cannot supply full

particulars now, but you will learn them in due course. The point I

wish to emphasize is this--poor Mr. Hunter's death was absolutely

needless. I imagine he only came into connection with the intrigue by

exercising the journalistic instinct to obtain exclusive details of a

sensational news item which involved several distinguished people. The

miserable tools employed by men who wished to gain their own ends were

not even true to each other, and they undoubtedly attacked Hunter by

error."

"Did they mean to kill you, then?"

"Oh, no. They had never heard of me. I dropped from the skies, or the

nearest thing to it, since I was on the Atlantic at this hour

yesterday."

McCulloch was aware that the Frenchman had been profoundly disturbed by

Curtis's statements, and kept the ball rolling. That name, de

Courtois, seemed to supply the clew to the man's agitation, so he

harped on it.

"Has Mr. Steingall seen de Courtois?" he asked.

"Yes. Mr. Devar and I accompanied him to de Courtois's room, and set

the rascal free."

"That settles it," said the roundsman emphatically. "If the man with

the camera eye has looked de Courtois over it is all up with the whole

bunch. Are you listening, Anatole? This should be real lively hearing

for you."

"Monsieur de Courtois is a friend of mine," came the sullen response.

"Oh, is he? Then you do know something about events in 27th Street,

eh?"

"I tell you nothing, but why should I deny that I know Monsieur de

Courtois?"

"Or that you are a Frenchman," put in Curtis quietly. "One of the few

words in the French language which no foreigner can ever pronounce is

that word 'Monsieur,' especially when it is followed by a 'de.' I

speak French well enough to realize my limitations."

"Now, Anatole, cough it up," said McCulloch jocularly. "You've no more

chance of winning through than a chunk of ice in hell's flames."

"Let me alone, I'm tired," said the other, relapsing into a stony

inattention which did not end even when Brodie brought the car to a

stand outside the police station-house in West 30th Street.

The advent of the roundsman with a prisoner and escort created some

commotion among his colleagues. The police captain was the same

official who had harbored suspicion against Curtis not so many hours

ago, and his opinion was not entirely changed, only modified.

He glanced darkly at Curtis and Devar, but was manifestly cheered by

sight of McCulloch with a chauffeur in custody.

"Hello!" he cried, "and where in Hades have _you_ been?"

"A long way from home, Mr. Evans," said the roundsman. "But it was

worth while. This is Anatole, whose other name is Labergerie, the man

wanted for the murder in 27th Street."

"The deuce it is! Where did you get him?"

"Away up beyond Yonkers."

"Hold on a minute."

He swung round quickly to a telephone, and called up Headquarters.

"Hello, there," he said, when an answer came. "Mr. Steingall or Mr.

Clancy in? Both? Well, put me through. . . . That you, Mr.

Steingall? I'm Evans, 23rd precinct. . . . Sergeant McCulloch has

just arrived with a prisoner, the chauffeur, Anatole; and Mr. Curtis is

here, too. . . . Anatole Labergerie is the full name."

Some conversation followed. The others could hear the peculiar rasping

sound of a voice otherwise undistinguishable, but it was evident that

the police captain was greatly puzzled. At last he beckoned to Curtis.

"You're wanted," he said laconically.

Curtis went to the instrument, and Steingall's rather amused tone was

soon explicable.

"There's a screw loose, somewhere," he said. "Anatole Labergerie is a

respectable garage-keeper. I know him well. Half an hour ago I called

him out of bed, chiefly on account of his front name, and he told me

that Mr. Hunter hired a car from him last evening, but never showed up

at the appointed place and time, and the chauffeur brought the car back

to the garage to wait further orders."

"I have no wish to traduce Anatole Labergerie," said Curtis, "but I am

quite sure that the man under arrest is the driver of the car in which

the Hungarians made off. He has admitted, too, that Jean de Courtois

is his friend."

A low whistle revealed Steingall's revised view of the situation.

"Don't go away," he said. "Clancy and I will be with you in less than

quarter of an hour."

Curtis hung up the receiver, and announced the new development. The

Frenchman did not betray any cognizance of it. He had collapsed into a

chair, and looked the degenerate that he was.

But Devar slapped McCulloch's broad shoulders.

"Didn't I tell you?" he cried. "There's a whole lot of night ahead of

us yet. Gee whizz! I'll write a book before I'm through with this!"