CHAPTER I
DUSK
"There, sonny--behold the city of your dreams! Good old New York, as
per schedule. . . . Gee! Ain't she great?"
The slim, self-possessed youth of twenty hardly seemed to expect an
answer; but the man addressed in this pert manner, though the senior of
the pair by six years, felt that the emotion throbbing in his heart
must be allowed to bubble forth lest he became hysterical.
"Old New York, do you call it?" he asked quietly. The tense restraint
in his voice would perhaps have betrayed his mood to a more delicately
tuned ear than his companion's, but young Howard Devar, heir of the
Devar millions--son of "Vancouver" Devar, the Devar who fed multitudes
on canned salmon, and was suspected of having cornered wheat at least
once, thus woefully misapplying the parable of the loaves and
fishes--had the wit to appreciate the significance of the question,
deaf as he was to its note of longing, of adulation, of vibrant
sentiment.
"_Coelum non animum mutat_, which, in good American, means that it is
the same old city on the level, and only changes its sky-line," he
chortled. "Bet you a five-spot to a nickel I'll walk blindfolded along
Twenty-third Street from the Hoboken Ferry any time of the day, and
take the correct turn into Broadway, bar being run over by a taxi or
street-car at the crossings."
"I'll take the same odds and do that myself. How could any normal
human being miss the rattle of the Sixth Avenue Elevated?"
Devar's forehead wrinkled with surprise.
"Hello, there! Hold on! How often have you told me that you had never
seen New York since you were a baby?" he cried.
"Nor have I. Ten years ago, almost to a day, I sailed from Boston to
Europe with my people, and I had never revisited New York after leaving
it in infancy, though both my father and mother hailed from the Bronx."
"There's a cog missing somewhere, or my mental gear-box is out of
shape."
"Not a bit of it. One may learn heaps of things from maps and books."
"Start right in, then, and take an honors course, for behold in me a
map and a book and a high-grade society index for the whole blessed
little island of Manhattan."
"Thank you. What is that slender, column-like structure to the left of
the Singer Building?"
Devar gazed hard at the graceful tower indicated by his friend; then he
laughed.
"Oh, you're uncanny, that's what you are," he said. "You've lived so
long in the East that you've imbibed its tricks of occultism and
necromancy. I suppose you have discovered in some way that that
mushroom has sprung up since the old man sent me to Heidelberg?"
"I guessed it, I admit. It does not figure among the down-town
sky-scrapers in the latest drawing available in London."
"And d'ye mean to tell me that you can pick out any of these
top-notchers merely by studying a picture?"
"Yes. Probably you could do the same if you, like me, felt yourself a
returned exile."
Young Devar awoke at last to the fact that his companion was brimming
over with subdued excitement. Whether this arose from the intense
nationalism of an expatriated American, or from some more subtle
personal cause, he could not determine, but, being young, he was
cynical. He looked at the strong, set face, the well-knit, sinewy
figure, the purposeful hands gripping the fore rail of the promenade
deck; then he growled, with just the least spice of humorous envy:
"Say, Curtis, old man, you ought to have a hell of a good time in New
York!"
"At any rate, I shall not suffer from lack of enthusiasm," came the
quick retort.
Devar felt the spur, and his restless, bird-like eyes condescended to
dwell for a few seconds in silence on the splendid panorama in front.
The _Lusitania_ had passed through the Narrows before the two young men
had strolled along the upper deck of the great steamship to the
'vantage point of a gangway which made a half-circle around the
commander's quarters. Already the Statue of Liberty loomed
majestically over the port bow, and the wide expanse of the Hudson
River was framed by the wooded slopes of Staten Island, the low shores
of New Jersey, and the heights of the Palisades. Somewhat to the right
rose the imperial outlines of newest New York, that wonderful city
which, even in the memory of children, has raised itself hundreds of
feet nearer the sky. A thin, blue haze gave glamour to a delightful
scene, glowing in the declining rays of a November sun. The gigantic
strands of the Brooklyn Bridge showed through it like some aerial path
to a fabulous land, while, merging fast in the shadows, other dim
specters told of even greater engineering marvels higher up the East
River. A fleet of bustling vessels, for the most part ferry-boats and
tugs of every possible size and shape, scudded across the spacious
waterways, and lent to the picture exactly that semblance of vitality,
of energetic purpose, of relentless effort to be up and doing--whether
the New Yorker was going home from his office, or his wife was coming
into town for dinner and a theater--which one, at least, of the city's
uncounted sons had confidently expected to find in it.
So John Delancy Curtis drew a deep breath that sounded almost like a
sigh, but a pleasant smile illumined his somewhat stern face as he
turned to Devar and said:
"I am giving myself fourteen days' free run of the town before I go
West to visit some relatives. They live in Indiana, I believe.
Bloomington, Monroe County, is the latest address I possess. Don't
forget to ring me up to-morrow. You remember the hotel, the Central,
in West 27th Street."
"Oh, forget it!" cried the other vexedly. "Why in the world are you
burying yourself in that pre-historic shanty? Man alive, the Holland
House is only a block away, and there are 'steen hotels of the right
sort strung out along Fifth Avenue, 'way up to Central Park----"
"It's just a whim," broke in Curtis, who did not feel like explaining
at the moment that he was choosing a quiet old inn in a side street
because he had been born there! Nevertheless, his words held that ring
of decision, of finality in judgment, which invariably forms part of
the equipment of men who have lived in wild lands and lorded it over
inferior races. Devar was vaguely conscious, and perhaps slightly
resentful, of this compelling quality in his new-found crony.
Oft-times it had quelled him for an instant during some stubbornly
contested argument, though he raged at himself just as often for
yielding to it, as if, forsooth, he were one of those patient,
animal-like, Chinese coolies of whose courage and endurance Curtis
spoke so admiringly. Yet he was drawn to the man, and clung to his
friendship.
"Right-o! I s'pose the place owns a telephone," he snickered, and then
hurried away to finish packing. Curtis, whose belongings were locked
and strapped hours ago, remained on deck, and watched the preparations
for bringing the great liner alongside the Cunard pier. When her
engines were stopped in mid-stream a number of fussy little tugs began
nosing her round to starboard. It seemed a matter of sheer
impossibility that these puny creatures should move such a monster; but
faith can move mountains, and in half an hour, or less, the tugs had
moved the _Lusitania_ to her allotted berth.
Meanwhile, in each wide arch of the Customs shed, parterres of joyous
faces grew momentarily more distinct. It was easy to discern the very
instant when one or other eager group on shore recognized the features
of relatives and friends on the ship. A frenzied waving of
handkerchiefs, small flags, or umbrellas, an occasional wild whoop, a
college cry or a rebel yell, would evoke similar demonstrations from
the packed lines of onlookers fringing the lower decks. One fact was
dominant--to the vast majority of the passengers, this was home.
Suddenly, Curtis found that he was the sole tenant of the open
promenade. Everyone on board had hurried to the less exalted levels,
the many to hail their loved ones, the few to watch that first unique
demonstration of welcome to a new land which New York gives so
generously. Somehow, he had never felt himself more alone--not even by
night in the solemn plains of Manchuria--and he threw off the feeling,
almost with contempt. Was not this city his very own? Had he not a
birthright in every stone of it, from pavement to loftiest pinnacle?
This was _his_ home-coming, too, more real, more literally complete,
than in the case of any but the few born New Yorkers who might figure
among the two thousand passengers carried by the _Lusitania_.
Insistently claiming his share of recognition, he turned abruptly, and
made his way to the third deck. There he met a lady, a young bride,
who was returning to the States with her husband after a prolonged tour
through Europe. Her pretty face was wrung with emotion, but a second
glance revealed that her distress was due to the pleasant pain of
happiness.
"Have you seen your father and mother?" he asked sympathetically,
knowing that she had looked forward to this great hour with so much
longing.
"Y-yes," she sobbed. "They are there--somewhere. B-but, oh dear! I
cannot see them now for my tears."
Someone dug a joyful thumb into Curtis's ribs. It was the girl's
husband.
"Gee, it's fine to be home again!" he said huskily. "Your leaning
towers of Pisa are all right by way of a change, but deal me the
Metropolitan for keeps, an' I've just spotted my old dad grinning at me
like a Cheshire cat from the middle of a crowd wedged so tight that it
would take a panic to squeeze in an extra walking-stick."
So the knowledge was borne in on Curtis that one could feel quite as
lonely on C Deck as on A, and, case-hardened wanderer that he was, he
badly wanted someone to yell at gleefully among the waiting multitude.
Now the gangways were out, and West folded East in her willing arms.
The stolid masses of steamship and Customs shed obliterated the orange
and crimson sky still gleaming over the Jersey shore, and pallid
electric lights revealed but vaguely the ever-changing groups beyond
the gangways.
To an experienced traveler like Curtis all Custom-houses were alike,
dingy, nerve-racking, superfluous clogs on free movement. Taking his
time, for he had none to embrace or greet with outstretched hand, he
strolled quietly off the ship, collected his baggage, which was piled
with other people's belongings under a big "C," and nodded to Devar,
similarly engaged at "D."
The boy ran to him for an instant.
"I may look you up to-night," he said. "Dad is in Chicago, and won't
be here till the morning. You remember we passed the _Switzerland_
after breakfast, and she signaled that she was steaming with the port
engine only?"
"Yes."
"Well, her trouble was known by wireless, and there is a man on board
whom dad has to meet. This chap is important. I am not."
"My dear fellow, don't think of leaving your friends on my account this
evening," and Curtis, without looking around, showed that he had
noticed the befurred elderly lady and two very pretty daughters who
were taking Howard Devar under their elegant wings.
"Oh, that's my aunt, and two of my cousins. I have dozens of 'em,
dozens of cousins, that is. Anyhow, old sport, don't wait in after
7.30; just leave word where you may be about eleven."
No further protest by Curtis was possible, because Devar's present
behavior was of the whirlwind order. He seemed to own as many trunks
as cousins, and a lantern-jawed Customs official was gloating over them
already. Perhaps Curtis felt a faint whiff of surprise that his young
friend had not introduced him to his relatives, but it vanished
instantly. Steamer acquaintance is a nebulous thing at the best; in
that respect, the land is more unstable than the sea.
At last, the stranger in his own country was consigned to a porter, his
two steamer trunks, a kit-bag, a suit-case, and a bundle of worn golf
clubs were placed on a taxi, and a breath of clean, cold air blew in on
his face as the vehicle hurried along West Street, that broad and
exceedingly useful thoroughfare which New York has finally wrested from
its waterside slums.
The chief city of America is fortunate in the fact that a noble harbor
presents her in full regalia to the voyager from Europe. That
favorable first impression, unattainable by the majority of the world's
capitals, is never lost, and now it enabled Curtis to disregard the
garish ugliness of the avenues and streets glimpsed during a quick run
to the center of the town. For one thing, he realized how the mere
propinquity of docks and wharves infects entire districts with the
happy-go-lucky carelessness of Jack ashore; for another, he knew what
was coming.
Or he fancied that he knew, a state of mind which, particularly in New
York, produces brain storms. His first shock came when the taxi drew
up in front of a narrow-fronted, exceedingly tall building, equipped
with revolving doors, while a hall-porter, dressed like an archduke,
peered through the window and inquired severely:
"Have you reserved a room, sir?"
Yes, this was the Central Hotel, rebuilt, gone skyward, in full cry
after its more pretentious _a la carte_ neighbors, and the hall-porter
was pained by the mere suspicion that the fact was not accepted of all
the world of travel.
Although the newcomer confessed that he had not made any reservation of
rooms, the Archduke graciously permitted him to alight--indeed, quelled
an incipient rebellion on Curtis's part by ordering a couple of negroes
to disappear with most of the baggage. So Curtis announced meekly to a
super-clerk that he wanted a room with a bathroom, and was allowed to
register. As in a dream, he signed "John D. Curtis, Pekin," and was
promptly annoyed at finding what he had written, because, being a
citizen of New York, he had meant to claim the distinction, and ignore
his long years in Cathay.
"You'll find 605 a comfortable, quiet room, Mr. Curtis," said the
clerk. "Going to make a long stay, may I ask?"
"A few days--perhaps a fortnight. I cannot say offhand."
"Well, sir, I can't fix you better than in 605."
From some points of view, the clerk had never uttered a truer word. It
was wholly impossible that he or Curtis should guess how an apparently
empty and really excellent apartment in the Central Hotel should be
full to the ceiling that evening with that dynamite in human affairs
called chance. If the slightest inkling of the forthcoming explosion
could have been vouchsafed to both men, there is no telling what Curtis
might have done, for he was a true adventurer, of the D'Artagnan genus,
but the clerk would certainly have used all his persuasiveness to
induce the guest to occupy some other part of the house. In later
periods of unruffled calm, he was wont to date from that moment the
genesis of gray hairs among his once raven-hued locks.
But chance, like dynamite, not only gives no warning of its explosive
properties but resembles that agent of disruption in following a
curiously wayward path. Curtis was piloted into an elevator by an
affable negro, was conducted to 605, which, of course, lay on the sixth
floor, and was plunged forthwith into the prosaic business of
consigning a good deal of soiled linen to the laundry.
The room was insufferably hot, so he directed the negro attendant to
shut off the radiator, and himself threw open the window. Glancing
out, he discovered that he was located in a corner which commanded a
distant glimpse of Broadway. Directly before his eyes, in the topmost
story of a comparatively low building, a lady who had forgotten to draw
the blinds of her flat was apparently indulging in calisthenic
exercises, so Curtis, being a modest man, drew the blind in his own
room, and busied himself with a partial unpacking of his baggage. The
door faced the bed, at a distance of some six feet. A wardrobe
occupied the recess, and the negro, while unstrapping a steel trunk at
the foot of the bed, balanced the bag of golf clubs against the front
of the wardrobe--an action simple enough in itself, but comparable in
its after effects to the setting of a clock attached to a bomb.
Soon afterwards, Curtis dismissed the man, and noticed casually that
the opening of the door caused a pleasant draught of cool air. He
wrote a few letters, dressed, electing for a Tuxedo and black tie,
filled a cigar-case, donned a green Homburg hat, threw an overcoat over
his left arm, picked up the letters, extinguished the lights, and went
out. Again there came that rush of air from the window, and, just as
the lock snapped, a crash from the interior announced the falling of
the golf clubs, probably owing to a swaying of the wardrobe door.
Simultaneously, Curtis realized that he had left the key on the
dressing-table.
It was hardly worth while searching the floor for a chamber-maid: he
decided to inform the civil-spoken clerk, and have the key brought to
the office, at which sapient resolve Puck, who was surely abroad in New
York that night, must have chuckled delightedly. Unhappily, there were
other spirits brooding in the city, spirits before whose deathly scowls
the prime mischief-maker would have fled in terror, and Curtis, all
unwitting, brushed against one of them in the hall. His only
acquaintance, the clerk, was momentarily absent, so he turned to a
bookstall and cigar counter, and bought some stamps. A man who had
been seated in a sort of cafe, which the news-stand and a flower-stall
partially screened from the main hall, rose hurriedly when he saw
Curtis, and purchased a cigar. In doing so, he touched the young man's
shoulder, and said: "Pardon!"
Curtis turned, and looked into the singularly unprepossessing face of a
swarthy foreigner, a powerfully-built, ungainly person of about his own
age.
"That's all right," said he, licking a stamp.
"I jostled you by accident, monsieur," said the other, in correct
French, though with a quaint accent which Curtis, himself no mean
linguist, put down to a Polish or Czech nationality.
"_Ca ne fait rien_," he replied civilly, and the stamping of the
letters being completed, he took them to the letter-box.
The stranger, who seemed to be rather puzzled, if somewhat reassured,
dawdled over the lighting of the cigar, and watched Curtis enter the
dining-room. Then he went back to his chair in the cafe. So much, and
no more, did the youth in charge of the counter observe--not a great
deal, but it went a long way before midnight.
A clock in the hall showed that the hour was five minutes to seven.
Half hoping that Devar might actually put in an appearance a little
later, Curtis gave his hat and coat to a negro, and decided to dine in
the hotel. Evidently, the place still retained its old-time repute as
a family and commercial resort. The family element was in evidence at
some of the tables, while, in the case of solitary diners, each man
could have been labeled Pittsburg, Chicago, or Philadelphia, almost
without error, by those acquainted with the industrial life of the
United States.
He ate well, if simply, and treated himself to a small bottle of a
noted champagne. At half-past seven, meaning to give Devar ten
minutes' grace, he ordered coffee and a glass of green Chartreuse. As
a time-killer, there is no liqueur more potent, but, regarded in the
light of subsequent occurrences, it would be hard to say exactly how
far the cunning monkish decoction helped in determining his wayward
actions. Undoubtedly, some fantastic influence carried him beyond
those bounds of calm self-possession within which everyone who knew
John Delancy Curtis would have expected to find him. His subsequent
light-headedness, his placid acceptance of a mad romance as the one
thing that was inevitable, his ready yielding to impulse, his no less
stubborn refusal to return to the beaten path of common sense--these
unlikely traits in a character gifted with the New England dourness of
purpose can only be explained, if at all, as arising from some
unsuspected hereditary streak of knight-errantry brought into sudden
and exotic life by the good wines of France.
Be that as it may, at twenty minutes to eight he paid what he owed,
lighted a cigar, donned his hat, and, still carrying the overcoat, was
walking to the office to leave word about the key, when his attention
was attracted by the peculiar behavior of the man who had pushed
against him at the cigar counter.
This person, apparently obeying a signal from another man of his own
type who had just emerged from the elevator, hastened from the cafe,
and the two ran to the door. Now, the weather had been mild during the
afternoon, and the revolving shutters of the doorway were folded back
to allow of the overheated hall being cooled. A porter stood there,
and it was ascertained afterwards that, noticing a certain air of
flurry and confusion about the foreigners, he asked if they wanted a
taxi. They gave no heed, but continued to gaze up and down the street,
as though they awaited someone. Equally did they seem to expect, or
dread, an apparition from the hotel. It would have been hard to pick
out, at that instant, two persons more singularly ill at ease in all
New York.
Curtis saw that the clerk, now at his desk, was engaged with a lady, so
he strolled to the door, being rather interested in the excited antics
of the pair on the sidewalk. He had just passed through the door when
an automobile dashed up, and he fancied, though he could not be quite
sure in the half-light, that the chauffeur nodded to the waiting men.
The porter opened the door of the automobile, and a young man in
evening dress, and carrying an overcoat, leaped out. Obviously, he was
in a desperate hurry, and Curtis heard him say in French:
"Don't stop the engine, Anatole. I shall be but one moment."
At that instant the two foreigners sprang at him. One, swinging the
porter off his feet, seized the newcomer's right arm, and, helped by
his comrade, endeavored to force him back into the vehicle. The effort
failed, however, so the second desperado drew a knife and plunged it
deliberately into the unfortunate man's neck. It was a fearsome
stroke, intended both to silence and to kill, and, with a gurgling cry,
its victim collapsed in the grip of his assailants.
Curtis, though almost stupefied by the suddenness of the crime, did not
hesitate a second when he caught the venomous gleam of the knife.
Throwing aside his coat, he rushed forward, but he had to cross the
whole width of the pavement, and the murderers, realizing that the
capture of one or both was imminent, thrust the inert body in his way.
The chauffeur, who must have seen all that happened, had already
started the car, the two men scrambled into it, and all that Curtis
could do was to run after it and shout frantically to the driver of a
taxi coming in the opposite direction to turn his vehicle and block the
roadway.
The man understood, but was naturally slow to risk a sharp collision
merely at the order of an excited gentleman in evening dress. He
stopped quickly enough, but, by the time his help was available,
pursuit was hopeless; the one thing Curtis could do he had done--while
running up the street he had deciphered the number of the car, X24-305.
Before Curtis rejoined the dazed hall-porter a small crowd had
gathered, and it was difficult to get near the body lying on the curb.
A man picked up an overcoat, and Curtis, cool and clear-headed now,
took it, and appealed to him, if he knew where the nearest doctor
lived, to run thither at top speed. The man obeyed him instantly.
"Meanwhile, let me see to the poor fellow," he said. "I am not a
doctor, but I know enough about wounds to say whether those scoundrels
have killed him or not."
The throng yielded to an authoritative voice, and some of the more
sensible bystanders formed a ring, thus securing a semblance of light
and air around the prostrate man. Curtis struck a match, and it needed
no second glance to learn that the stranger's lung had been pierced by
an almost vertical thrust; indeed, he was already dying. The poor
lips, from which blood and froth were bubbling, strove vainly to
articulate words which, in the prevalent hubbub of alarm and
excitement, it was impossible to distinguish. A policeman came, and,
as a traffic station for the precinct happened to lie within a couple
of doors, the moribund form was carried in, and placed on a stretcher
kept there for use in emergency.
A doctor was soon on the spot, but he arrived just in time to record
the last flicker of life in the tortured eyes. Then, as one in a
dream, Curtis gave the policeman the details of the crime, the name of
the chauffeur, and the number of the car, his testimony being borne out
to some extent by the hall-porter, and, so far as the car was
concerned, by the sharp-eyed driver of the taxi. His own name and
address were taken, and a police captain and a couple of detectives,
called to the scene by telephone, thanked him for his alertness in
securing valuable clews, not only in regard to the car and chauffeur
but also in describing the features, figure, and dress of one of the
criminals.
Finally, he was warned to hold himself in readiness to attend the
opening of an inquest on the following morning, and the police
intimated that they did not desire the presence of witnesses while the
dead man's clothing was being scrutinized.
So Curtis went out into the street, and, with no other purpose than to
avoid the publicity and questioning of the crowd gathered in and around
the hotel, sauntered into Broadway. At the corner he halted for a
moment to put on the overcoat. He had gone some few yards up the
brilliantly illuminated thoroughfare when he fancied that his nervous
system needed the tonic of a cigar, and he searched in the pockets of
the overcoat for a box of matches he had placed there before leaving
his bedroom. The box had gone, but in the right-hand pocket his
fingers closed on a long, narrow envelope, made of stiff linen paper,
which somehow seemed unfamiliar. He drew it out, and examined it,
standing in front of a well-lighted shop window.
Then he whistled with sheer amazement, as well he might. The envelope
held a marriage license for two people named Jean de Courtois and
Hermione Beauregard Grandison. . . . In a word, he was wearing the
dead man's overcoat, and the fearsome conviction leaped to his brain
that the dead man must be Jean de Courtois.