CHAPTER XIV

THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING

Evans, the police captain of the 23rd Precinct, had a fairly long story

to hear from McCulloch. The roundsman did not spare himself in the

recital. He pleaded guilty to three errors of judgment. In the first

instance, he would have done well had he taken the advice given by

Devar during the halt at 42nd Street, and arrested the supposed

"Anatole" then and there; secondly, he might have secured corroborative

evidence of the cleansing of parts of the automobile--evidence now

destroyed by the waters of the Hudson; and, thirdly, he should have

asked Brodie to intercept the fugitive long before it became possible

to plunge the car into the river.

"All I can say is, I sized up the situation and acted accordingly," he

commented ruefully. "It did look like a good plan to give him rope

enough"--here he checked his utterance, and glanced at the disconsolate

prisoner--"but he fairly got the better of me when I went aboard that

barge. I ought to have left one of these gentlemen to watch the quay.

My excuse is that the barge seemed to offer the only probable

hiding-place, and there was always the chance that he had gone into the

river with the car."

"Anyhow, you got him," observed Evans sympathetically, for McCulloch

was a valued and trustworthy officer.

"Well, he's here, but Mr. Brodie got him," whereupon Brodie tried not

to look sheepish.

Steingall and Clancy arrived before the roundsman had made an end of

his experiences, which he had to recount for their benefit. The two

detectives had resumed their ordinary clothing. They looked tired, but

quietly elated, and it was noticeable that Clancy's mercurial spirits

seemed to have evaporated. Those who knew him would have augured from

that fact that the chase was reaching its climax, but Curtis and Devar

fancied that the little man was thoroughly worn out and pining for

rest. Never had they been more egregiously deceived. He resembled a

hound which bays its excitement when the quarry is scented but

restrains all its energies for the last desperate struggle when the

flying prey is in sight.

The Frenchman sat as though in a stupor, and seemingly gave no

attention to the details of the hunt, but he sprang to his feet in

sheer fright when Steingall walked up to him and said sternly:

"Now, Antoine Lamotte, listen to what I have to say."

"I am betrayed, then?" snarled the man viciously, though his voice went

off into a curious yelp of agony as a twinge reminded him of Brodie's

vigorous aim with half a brick.

"Yes, the game is up. I know your confederates, and you will be

confronted with them before daybreak. . . . No, I am not bluffing.

That is not my way. Their names are Gregor Martiny and Ferdinand

Rossi. Now are you satisfied?"

Lamotte sank back into his chair. His features were wrung with pain,

but the momentary excitement vanished, and his manner grew sullen again.

"If you know so much I can tell you nothing," he growled.

"No. You can give me little or no information I do not possess

already. But, unless you are more fool than knave, you can at least

try to save your own miserable life."

"How?"

"By a full confession. Did you know that Martiny and Rossi meant to

kill Mr. Hunter?"

"No, I swear it."

"Then why don't you take the hint I have given you? It will be too

late when you are brought before a judge. Believe me, I shall waste no

more breath in persuading you. It is now or never."

The Frenchman rose again, this time more slowly. He glanced around at

the ring of faces, and, for a moment, his gaze dwelt contemplatively on

Clancy. Perhaps he was vouchsafed some intuition that this man was to

be feared, but Clancy remained unemotional as a Sioux Indian. When he

spoke, it was with a certain dignity, and, oddly enough, his words,

though uttered in English, savored of a literal translation from the

French mint which coined them.

"Monsieur," he said, "I am a man who regards loyalty to his friends

before all."

"An excellent quality, even in a criminal, if your friends are loyal to

you," replied Steingall with equal seriousness of manner.

"But the woman who betrayed us--may she be eaten up with cancer!--is

not my friend. Those others are."

"I have met with no woman. I have good reason to think that you have

no real notion of the influences which led your Hungarian friends, as

you call them, to commit a murder. But I rather respect your

sentiment, so, to give you one final chance, I tell you now just how

you were brought into this thing. You are a thief, and the associate

of thieves, but you have never, so far as our records go, been

convicted. Your real name is not Lamotte, though you have passed under

it long enough in New York to establish some sort of claim to it, and

you were sentenced to two years' imprisonment at Toulon eight years ago

for a breach of military discipline. On your release you consorted

with anarchists in Paris, and, to escape arrest as a suspect after a

dynamite outrage on the Grand Boulevard, you emigrated to America. You

are a clever mechanic, and, had you tried to earn an honest living, you

would have succeeded, but some kink in your nature drove you to crime,

mixed up with a good deal of political froth. When you heard that

precious pair of fanatics, Martiny and Rossi, plotting in Morris

Siegelman's cafe to prevent a marriage between an English lady of great

wealth and a wretched little Frenchman, so that the cause of a

Hungarian party might benefit if Count Ladislas Vassilan secured the

lady and the money, especially the money, you thought you saw a way

towards striking a blow at the Austrian monarchy and also benefiting

yourself. So you offered your services, and your more acute brain put

them up to a dodge they would never have thought of. It was necessary

for your purpose that you should figure as a respectable man, so you

had cards printed in the name of Anatole Labergerie, and addressed

letters to yourself under that same name at Morris Siegelman's

restaurant. I do not know yet where you obtained the car, but I shall

know to-morrow--the fact is immaterial now. What is of real importance

is the method whereby you humbugged the janitor at Mr. Hunter's office

by pretending that you had been sent there by Mr. Labergerie because

the car was at liberty somewhat earlier than was expected, and the

unfortunate journalist took it as a compliment, drove to his rooms,

changed his clothes, and returned to the office, thus playing into your

hands, because the car sent to his order by Mr. Labergerie was thereby

prevented from picking him up at the appointed time. It was shrewd of

you to guess that a busy man on the staff of a newspaper would be glad

to utilize an automobile placed unexpectedly at his disposal, and fate

played into your hands by the delay in issuing the duplicate marriage

license, which he had promised de Courtois to obtain from the City

Hall."

"Sir, I knew nothing of any marriage license."

"Probably not. You were concerned only with taking your confederates'

money, and posing as the clever brain of the outfit. But I imagine,

and not another word shall I say, that they overreached you a bit when

they knifed Mr. Hunter."

Lamotte, to describe him by the name under which he figured in the

annals of the crime, stretched out his hands in a gesture of emphatic

protest.

"No matter what becomes of me," he said eagerly, "I ask you to believe

that I did not even know they had killed Mr. Hunter until I saw the

blood on the panel when I took them to Market Street."

"So. You have been slow to adopt the lead I offered you. But why, in

God's name, did they stab the man? That could hardly have been their

deliberate plan."

"It was a sort of accident. So they said. They really meant to force

him into the car, and overpower him. The scheme was to bring him to

Market Street and keep him there until----"

He hesitated. He had given up hope for himself, but he stopped short

of introducing other names into prominence.

"Until the _Switzerland_ had reached New York, with Count Ladislas

Vassilan and the English lord on board."

Then Lamotte yielded.

"You know everything," he said, with a dejected shrug. "Either you are

a wizard, or Gregor and Rossi are open-mouthed fools."

Steingall smiled inscrutably, but Clancy, who had remained strangely

quiet, did not relax the close attention he was giving to the

Frenchman's least word or action. It was about this time that Curtis

noticed the little detective's air of complete absorption, and he

wondered at it, since Clancy and his chief seemed to have unfolded the

whole mystery in a way that was at once admirable and bewildering.

"Then why don't you exercise your wits, man? I have been candor itself

in my statement, but it is your own words which will be taken down by

the police captain here, as you are charged in his presence with

complicity in the murder, and they will be on record for or against you

when you are brought to trial."

"You want me to admit that what you have said is true?"

"Just as you wish," said Steingall, half contemptuously. "I now charge

you formally with taking part in the murder of Mr. Hunter. If you have

anything to say, say it, and it will be written at once, and signed by

you, if you choose."

He waited a moment, and then turned aside.

"Put him in the cells," he said. "I shall not trouble farther about

him now."

"One moment, monsieur," exclaimed Lamotte, evidently believing that he

was seriously jeopardizing his life by not taking the advice given so

openly. "I admit that you are well informed, but I must add that I was

ignorant of the murder till nearly half an hour after it had occurred."

"Pooh, that's no use. Make a full statement, or take the

consequences." Steingall's tone was so offhanded that Lamotte was

afraid he had lost a good opportunity of saving his neck.

"But what is there to tell?" he cried.

"Just what happened outside the Central Hotel and afterwards."

"I brought Mr. Hunter there, and nodded to Martiny and Rossi, who were

waiting on the sidewalk, to show that he was inside the car. I

remained at the wheel, and anyone can perceive that my position made it

impossible to see what was going on when the door opened. Martiny was

nearest to me, and I am sure he never used a knife, so it must have

been Rossi. Is that correct?"

"I believe so, absolutely. What next?"

"Martiny said 'Vite, allez!' so I shoved in the clutch and made off at

top speed. In Fifth Avenue I glanced over my shoulder to look at Mr.

Hunter, and see whether or not he was struggling, but my friends alone

were visible in the back seat, so I believed they had put him on the

floor, and did not stop or look at them again until I reached De

Silva's house in Market Street. Then, to my annoyance, when I got down

to help carry in Mr. Hunter, I found blood on the step and the panel,

and the idiots told me what they had done. It is only fair to say that

De Silva is innocent of any part in the affair. He didn't even know

that we were bringing anyone to Rossi's room, and we took care that he

should be out at the time we counted on arriving at Market Street."

"You didn't attack Mr. Hunter sooner because your orders were to wait

until the last possible moment?"

"That is so."

[Illustration: Scenes from the photo-drama.]

Devar was unaware of any change in the manner of either of the

detectives, because he was watching Lamotte's livid face with a species

of fascinated horror, but Curtis, who had often been compelled to hold

similar inquiries into cold-blooded crimes committed by Chinese

coolies, found greater interest in observing Clancy. A subtle

exultation had suddenly danced into the diminutive Franco-Irishman's

expressive features when Market Street was first mentioned, and his

coal-black eyes blazed in their slits at the sound of that name, De

Silva.

A queer thought flitted through Curtis's mind, but he put it aside,

because Steingall was speaking again.

"Well, you got rid of your friends. Then what did you do?"

"The rest was simple. I cleaned the car in a hurry with a bit of oily

waste, took it to a yard which I have used at times, at an address

which I beg you to permit me to forget, changed the number plate, and,

at an hour which I deemed discreet, drove uptown in order to dispose of

the car by leaving it deserted near the garage from which it came. The

owner's house is on Riverside Drive. His name is Morris; he is absent

in Chicago on business, while I learnt that his chauffeur was ill."

A gasp of uncontrollable excitement from Devar drew all eyes to him.

"Great Jerusalem!" he cried. "Next house to my aunt's!"

"There's a mistake somewhere," broke in Brodie. "I know Mr. Morris's

car, and that isn't it."

Lamotte was positively annoyed that his word should appear to be

doubted.

"Messieurs," he said grandiloquently, "I assure you on my honor that I

am not misleading you."

Nor was he. The discrepancy was cleared up next day. The Morris

automobile was undergoing repairs, and the motor manufacturers had

supplied the gray car for use in the interim.

Steingall swept the matter aside impatiently.

"Go on," he said to the Frenchman. "You're taking a note of this?" he

added, glancing at police captain Evans.

"Got it," was the laconic reply.

"There is nothing else," said Lamotte. "I noticed that I was being

followed, and soon discovered that I could not shake off a more

powerful car. I was armed, but did not want to get into trouble on my

own account, and I knew that I would have to deal with three men. So I

decided to throw the car in the river, and trust to my wits for a means

of escape. I would have succeeded, too, had I been aware that there

was a fourth man in the party. From where I lay hidden beneath the

wharf I could only count the number of people who crossed to the barge.

I was unable to see them, so I included the chauffeur among the three.

I was wrong. Perhaps it is as well, because I meant to get away, and

would have fought. . . . That is all. . . . Will one of you give me a

cigarette?"

Devar produced a case, and in response to Steingall's nod, offered its

contents to the prisoner, who took two cigarettes; nor could he be

prevailed on to accept more. Despite his hang-dog looks he had an

undoubted air of refinement. Degeneracy had claimed him as its own,

yet some streak of a nobler heredity had struggled to exert its

influence, only to fail.

Steingall put no more questions, and Lamotte relapsed into silence,

smoking nonchalantly while the police captain's pen was scratching a

transcript of the shorthand notes.

Curtis caught Steingall's eye, and drew him aside.

"That fellow told the truth about the actual murder, I think" he said.

"My story coincides with his in every detail."

"I'm sure you are right," agreed the detective. "The odd thing is that

Clancy should have spotted him from your description telephoned to

headquarters. You remember Clancy was looking at a book of photographs

when I brought you to the Bureau?"

"Yes."

"He had found him then. Some time since, during the anarchist troubles

in Chicago, the French police sent us a lot of pictures, and this

fellow's was among them."

"Why didn't he ask me if I recognized him?"

"That is not pretty Fanny's way. Clancy never does what any other man

would do. He hates to have anyone verify an opinion he has once

formed. Had you said the photograph resembled the man you saw outside

the hotel Clancy would actually have begun to believe that he might be

mistaken."

"At any rate," said Curtis, smiling, "you two seem to have made

marvelous progress with the inquiry since a set of drunken stokers

broke up a harmonious gathering at Morris Siegelman's."

"We have done pretty well, but this"--and Steingall glanced at

Lamotte--"this goes far beyond anything we hoped for to-night, or this

morning, for the new day is growing old."

Curtis was puzzled. He realized that the capture of the chauffeur was

important, but it shrank into insignificance beside the connected

history of events which the detective seemed to have at his fingers'

ends.

"I suppose I must not ask questions," he said with a quizzical look

into the extraordinary eyes which had earned the chief of the Detective

Bureau the picturesque description coined by an enthusiastic reporter.

"No need," said Steingall. "Unless you are fed up with excitement, I

purpose taking you and Mr. Devar down town again, just as soon as Evans

has stopped slinging ink. Then you will appreciate the importance of

the things said here."

Curtis remembered that fleeting impression he had garnered while

watching Clancy during the Frenchman's statement, which, however,

appeared only to confirm the ample history already in Steingall's

possession. But again his thoughts were diverted from the matter by

Steingall's next words.

"I take it you have not called at the Plaza Hotel since we came away

together?" he said. "You certainly could not stop there during the

rush after the missing chauffeur, and I suppose McCulloch brought you

straight here after the arrest?"

"Yes. We passed the hotel on the outward journey, and I thought I saw

a light in--in my wife's suite, but we returned by a different route."

He fancied that the detective was about to explain a somewhat peculiar

question, but at that instant the police captain summoned Lamotte to

his desk.

"I'll read what I have written," he said, "and, if it is correct, you

will sign it. You need not sign unless you wish, but the statement

will be given in court, and, if you attest it now, may count in your

favor."

He recited an exact record of the Frenchman's words, and Lamotte took

the pen and scrawled his name. Then, at a nod from Evans, the

roundsman took the prisoner to a cell.

"By Jove! George, or perhaps I ought to say 'By George, Jove!' you did

that well," exclaimed Clancy, speaking for the first time since he had

entered the station-house, and addressing Steingall.

"I thought I was going to fail, but I stuck to my guns, and it came

off," was the modest if rather cryptic reply.

"We, too, have fought with beasts at Ephegus, so let us into this,"

cried Devar. "What came off, and where was the risk of failure? To my

mind, you had Lamotte in a double Nelson grip all the time."

"That's where you are in error, young man," said Steingall cheerfully.

"Sometimes it pays to pretend a knowledge you don't possess, and this

was one of the occasions. Mr. Clancy and I knew that somewhere in New

York were two Hungarians named Gregor Martiny and Ferdinand Rossi. We

knew that they were the men who killed Mr. Hunter, but we had no more

notion where they were hiding, or how to lay hands on them, than the

man in the moon."

"Great Scott. Haven't you arrested them?"

"No, sir. That is a pleasure deferred."

"Do you mean that you wanged that address out of the Frenchman?"

"That's about the size of it. I might have searched for a week for

Martiny and Rossi, but no one in East Broadway would have owned up to

seeing or even hearing of them."

"Still, you had their names pat?"

"Yes," said the detective, cutting the end off a cigar, "we had their

names, and we ascertained why they killed Hunter, or would have killed

any other person who tried to balk their scheme, but our information

stopped there."

Steingall, usually so communicative, evidently meant to keep to himself

the source of his inspiration, and, in a few minutes, Brodie was

driving the four men to the Police Headquarters.

They went to the Detective Bureau, and Steingall telephoned the Clinton

Street police station-house.

"You know De Silva's place in Market Street?" he said. "Well, within

ten minutes have half-a-dozen men gather quietly near the door. . . .

Two others should watch the back, and stop anyone making a bolt that

way. . . . Yes, of course, there may be shooting. I'll turn up in a

private auto, and stop off at the corner of East Broadway. . . . Leave

the rest to Clancy and myself. . . . No, only two, but they're hot

stuff."

He unlocked a drawer in a desk, and took out a pair of revolvers.

After examining them to make sure they were fully loaded, he handed one

to Clancy.

"I hope we shall not require them, Eugene, but there's no telling," he

said.

"I suppose I'm not allowed to shoot anybody, so you might lend me a

stick," suggested Devar.

"You and Mr. Curtis are remaining right here," said the detective.

"Oh, be a man, Steingall!" cried Devar disgustedly. "Don't play dog

when there's a chance of a real row. Look how I swung things your way

in Morris Siegelman's!"

"You might let us peep round the corner, at any rate," smiled Curtis.

Steingall meant to be obdurate, but yielded, and it was well that he

allowed his sympathies to sway his judgment, or there might have been

an early vacancy in the chief inspectorship.

At that middle hour of the night even New York's prowlers of the dark

had retired to their foul rookeries. The streets were almost deserted,

and the glare of gas and naphtha had vanished. The houses of the

Hungarian quarter were stark and gloomy now, many woe-begone in their

semi-dismantled aspect, and all sinister. When the automobile drew up

noiselessly at the corner of Market Street, a broad enough

thoroughfare, but broken and battered in appearance, the only visible

forms were those of three or four patrolmen, who were sauntering

aimlessly along the sidewalk. But there were eyes watching through

unknown chinks in shutters, or peering through soiled curtains behind

dirt-stained windows, and the quiet concentration of the police in one

special quarter evidently did not pass unnoticed.

When the battle began, it partook of the vagaries of real warfare by

opening unexpectedly.

It was ascertained afterwards that two men darted like shadows out of a

passage in Market Street, and separated instantly. One came toward

East Broadway, where the detectives and their companions had just

alighted from the car, and the other, breaking into a run, dived into

Henry Street, with two patrolmen after him. He it was who opened the

fray, and the peace of the night was suddenly disrupted by the loud

bark of an automatic pistol. Three shots were fired with a quick

irregularity, and then came the deeper report of a service revolver.

Steingall and Clancy ran forward, and the fugitive coming their way had

actually passed them, with two more patrolmen in pursuit, when

Steingall saw him and turned instantly.

"Stop!" he shouted.

The man only increased his pace, and the detective, astonishingly

active for one of his bulk, raced along at top speed.

"Stop or I shoot!" he cried again.

By that time the self-confessed outlaw was nearly opposite the car. He

checked his pace, half turned, luckily not to the side where Curtis and

the others were standing, and leveled a Browning pistol at the

detective. He even hesitated an instant to take aim, but before his

finger had pressed the trigger, Curtis had sprung at him. There was no

time for a blow, but a well placed kick spun the would-be murderer off

his feet, and the crash of the shot came an infinitesimal part of a

second too late. As it was, the bullet struck a lamp higher up the

street, and a line taken subsequently showed that it must have missed

Steingall by only a few inches.

The miscreant reeled, and lost his balance. Then Curtis closed with

him, caught his right wrist, and threw him heavily, but, such was the

man's frenzied resolve not to be arrested, that he fired twice again

before the deadly weapon fell from his grasp. He did no damage, but

the uproar brought a motley crowd from the neighboring dwellings.

Market Street, which had seemed asleep or dead, proved itself very much

alive and awake, but the sight of uniformed police hurrying up from

several directions restrained any undue curiosity on the part of its

denizens.

The desperado on the ground was handcuffed at once, and, while a

policeman was searching his pockets rapidly to ascertain if he carried

another pistol, Steingall gripped Curtis by the shoulder.

"I owe you something for that," he said quietly. "I rather fancy he

would have dropped me if it hadn't been for you. . . . Oh, I know what

I am saying. I shall not forget. . . . Show a light here," he added

to a patrolman who had run from East Broadway on hearing the shooting.

"Now, Mr. Curtis, do you recognize him?"

"Yes," said Curtis---whose experiences in New York were revealing an

unsuspected side of his character, for in 56th Street, in Morris

Siegelman's, and now again in Market Street, he had proved himself what

Allen Breck would have termed "a bonnie fighter"--"yes, that is the man

who spoke to me in the Central Hotel. I imagine he is Martiny."

"Good! Put him in the car!"

The detective rushed off, but soon returned.

"Sorry to trouble you, but will you come this way a minute?" he said.

Curtis went with him. In Henry Street a small group was gathered in

the roadway. A policeman had proved himself a better shot than Rossi,

and Hunter's murder was already avenged in part.

The dead man was left to the district police, to be carried to the

mortuary in an ambulance. Steingall, with his prisoner, returned to

headquarters, while Clancy made a thorough search of the room the pair

had occupied in De Silva's house.

The Hungarian did not deny his name nor his share in the earlier crime.

"It is fate," he said doggedly in his broken French. "When they tell

me we have killed the man I know the police get us."

He would say no more. His words seemed to imply that neither he nor

Rossi meant to do other than maim the journalist whom they regarded as

de Courtois's dangerous helper; but he did not urge the plea. Perhaps

he felt that when a Hungarian uses a knife, a trifling error in the

matter of direction is pardonable.

"I shall not go home now," said Steingall, bidding farewell to his

allies when Martiny had been formally identified and charged. "I must

get this thing thoroughly straightened out before morning, though the

inquest and police court proceedings will be mere adjournments.

Good-night, Mr. Devar. Good-night, Mr. Curtis. Once more, thank you.

And, by the way, if all is not well at the Plaza, 'phone me at once.

Remember, won't you? Good-night!"