The Gates of Chance Part 11

She softened at that. "Only a rather aggravating disappointment; it does not matter now. But why will you men interfere in an unoffending woman's affairs."

"I had no idea--"

"Of course not. However, we need not enter further into particulars.

Your friend in the orchestra-stall yonder will doubtless enlighten you later on." A stout man with one ear distinctly larger than the other deliberately faced about in his seat and directed his gla.s.ses at our box. Immediately upon this the curtain went up on the last act, and his Excellency held up his hand to command silence.

"Madame," said Indiman, as he handed the Countess Gilda to her carriage, "I swear to you that the blunder I have unintentionally committed shall be atoned for. I ask but a hint--the slightest of clews."

"With pleasure, monsieur. I give you, therefore, the third appearance of the Queen of Spades. Au revoir! We sail to-morrow by the Cunarder."

The man with the disproportionate ears touched Indiman's elbow. "Beg pardon, sir," he said, deferentially, "but I shall have to have a word or two with you."

We drove to the Utinam Club and found a secluded corner. "Now, what is it, officer?" said Indiman.

The detective looked rather sheepish. "I'm afraid we've made a mess of it between us. Case of political blackmail, you see, and the young lady thought she could handle it herself. And so she could have done if we hadn't b.u.t.ted in, begging your pardon for so saying."

"Get to the point."

"Well, then, it's a question of a letter belonging to a great person in Roosha--written to or by her don't matter. The letter is here in New York, and it isn't a question of money with the holder, but power.

There's only one thing to do in that case--steal it, and the Countess thought she could turn the trick. So she went over on the Rooshan East Side and laid her pipes to stand next to the old party who holds the precious doc.u.ment. At the Baron's request I was detailed from the Central Office and instructed to keep my eyes on the young woman and my hands off the case. 'Course, then, I couldn't do neither. I lost the girl when you walked off with her at the house-smiths' bazaar, and then I had to stick in my oar and answer your personal in the Herald. I laid what I thought was a pretty smart trap. You fell into it, right enough."

"So you were the fellow who had me searched and held up at my own front door," said Indiman. "Confound your impudence! What did you expect to get?"

"Why, the letter, sir. I had figured it out that you was the black-mailer."

"Oh, the deuce! And in the mean time the real article had been put on his or her guard by all this hullabaloo, and the Countess Gilda's game was blocked."

"That's it, sir. A mistake all round."

"I should think so. Well, there's nothing more to be done. That's all you know about the case?"

"That's all, sir."

"Never heard of the Queen of Spades in this connection?"

"Never, sir."

"Well, good-night, officer. Brownson's your name, eh? I shan't forget it."

"Good-night, sir."

The night was fine, and we walked home. Over on Eighth Avenue a masquerade ball was in progress; we pa.s.sed under the brightly lit windows of the hall in which it was being held. A masker stood at the door, a woman dressed to impersonate the Queen of Spades. She waved her hand to Indiman, who had chanced to look up; then she plucked a rose from her bodice and tossed it over to him. He caught the flower, as becomes a gallant man, but immediately walked on.

"That was your cue--the Queen of Spades," I said.

"Not at all. It is only the third time that counts. First at the opera, and now here; the final and only important appearance is still to come."

At the next corner a wretchedly clad woman sat grinding a small barrel-organ. "For the love of Mary!" she whimpered, and Indiman thrust something into her waiting hand. He tried to hide the action, but I had caught sight of the money--a yellow-backed bill bearing the magic figures 50.

"Did you notice the tune?" said Indiman, as we walked on. "The Ninety-and-Nine."

VI

The Queen of Spades

I am very fond of Esper Indiman, but there are times when he is positively unfit for human society. Last week, for instance, when for three days on end we did not exchange a single word, not even at dinner, where the amenities should come on at least with the walnuts. I grant you that humdrum wears upon the spirit, that the flatness of the daily road may be a harder thing to get over than even Mr. Bunyan's hill Difficulty, but for a man to surrender himself mind and body to solitaire argues weakness. Moreover, it was a ridiculous combination of the cards that Indiman invariably set himself to resolve; the chances were at least a hundred to one against the solitaire coming out, and, indeed, I never saw him get it but once. Under rather curious circ.u.mstances, too--but I won't antic.i.p.ate; let us begin with the beginning of the adventure of the Queen of Spades.

You will remember that there was a mislaid letter whose possession had become a matter of supreme importance to a certain great person in Russia. The Countess Gilda (she of the Ninety-and-nine Kisses) had been on the point of obtaining the treasure, but the over-confidence of my friend Indiman, coupled with the blunders of a stupid detective, had brought about a premature explosion of the train. To Indiman, apologetic and remorseful, the Countess Gilda had vouchsafed a single pregnant utterance--"Wait for the third appearance of the Queen of Spades." This was his cue; let him make the most of it if he would repair the mischief that he had unwittingly done.

Now the opera, on the night preceding the Countess's departure for Europe, had been Tschaikowsky's "Queen of Spades"; the inference was inevitable that here was the first materialization of our mysterious heroine. That same evening we had encountered, at an Eighth Avenue ball, a masker whose costume had been designed upon the familiar model of the court-card in question; so much for number two. But Fortune had been almost too kind, and immediately upon this promising beginning she had withdrawn her smiles. For upward of a month nothing whatever had happened. As I have said, Indiman played solitaire and I smoked as much as I could. Dull work for all that it was the end of April, the height of the Easter season, and New York was at its gayest. A brilliant show--yes, and the same old one. Did you ever eat a quail a day for thirty days? Why not for three hundred or three thousand days, supposing that one is really fond of quail?

For the thirty-fifth consecutive time the solitaire failed to come out.

Indiman gathered the cards, shuffled them with infinite precision, and handed them to me to cut. I did so. Indiman took the pack and flung it into the air; the cards fluttered in all directions, and one came sailing straight for my nose. I put up my hand and caught it--it was the Queen of Spades.

"Here is the lady for the fateful third time," I remarked, jestingly.

But Indiman was nothing if not serious. He took the card from me and studied it attentively.

"Rather an interesting face, don't you think?" he said, musingly.

"Somewhat Semitic in physiognomy, you notice; that comes from the almond-shaped eyes and the abnormally high arch of the brows. Would you know her in the actual flesh--say, on Broadway? Brunette, of course, jet-black hair banded a la Merode over the ears, a little droop at the corners of her mouth. Voila! The Queen of Spades. Let us go out and look for her."

"A proposition," I remarked, judicially, "that savors of the rankest lunacy. And yet, why not? The lady certainly made the advances; it is an equivalent to an invitation to call. Pity she doesn't put her address on her card."

"Hym!" coughed Indiman, delicately. "That is a difficulty. But not necessarily an insurmountable one. Let us consult the street directory, with minds open and unprejudiced, and our faith will be rewarded--doubt it not.

"We will pa.s.s over the numbered streets and avenues," continued Indiman. "I am not in the mood for mathematical subtleties, although there is much of virtue in the digit 9, as every adept knows. Names are our quest to-day, so listen to them as they run--Allen, Bleecker, Bayard, Dey, Division--now why Division, do you suppose? What was divided, and who got the lion's share?"

"A delicate allusion to some eighteenth-century graft," I suggested.

"Consult the antiquaries."

"Oh, it's enough for our purpose that the division itself exists; it must lie below the 'barbed-wire fence,' somewhere across the line. To speak precisely, Division Street appears to start at Chatham Square, and it runs eastward to Grand Street. We will take the Third Avenue Elevated to Chatham Square, and then ask a policeman. Nothing could be more simple."

Descending the Elevated stairs, Division Street lay right before our eyes, and further inquiry was superfluous. Indiman's spirits had risen amazingly. "Why, it's only an elementary exercise," he said, smilingly.

"Divide an East Side street by a pack of cards, and the quotient is the Queen of Spades; you simply cannot escape from the conclusion. Forward, then."

Now, Division Street IS something out of the ordinary, as down-town thoroughfares go. It is the princ.i.p.al highway to that remote Yiddish country whose capital is William H. Seward Square, and the entire millinery and feminine tailoring business of the lower East Side is centred at this its upper end. In the one short block from Chatham Square to Market Street there are twenty-seven millinery establishments--count them for yourself--and with one exception the other shops are devoted to the sale of cloaks and mantuas and tailor-made gowns. All on the eastward of the street, you notice. There is a dollar and a shilling side in Division Street, just as elsewhere.

Talk of Bond Street and Fifth Avenue! Where will you find twenty-seven millinery shops in an almost unbroken row? What a multiplied vista of delight for feminine eyes--hats, hats, hats, as far as the eye can reach. Black hats and white hats; red, blue, and greenery-yallery hats; weird creations so loaded with gimp and pa.s.s.e.m.e.nterie as to certainly weigh a pound or more; daring confections in gauze and feathers; parterres of exotic blooms such as no earthly garden ever held; hats with bows on 'em and hats with birds on 'em, and hats with beasts on 'em; hats that twitter and hats that squawk; hats of lordly velvet and hats of plebeian corduroy; felt hats, straw hats, chip hats; wide brim and narrow brim; skewered, beribboned, bebowed--finally, again, just hats, hats, hats, a phantasmagoria of primary colors and gewgaws and fallalerie pure and simple, before which the masculine brain fairly reels. But the woman contemplates the show with serenity imperturbable: the hat she wants is here somewhere, and it is only a matter of time and patience to find it.

There is always a Mont Blanc to overtop the lesser Alpine summits--a Koh-i-noor in whose splendor all inferior radiance is extinguished.

Indiman touched my elbow. "Look at that one," he murmured.

Now that WAS a hat. To describe it--but let me first bespeak the indulgence of my feminine readers. I am not an authority upon hats--most distinctly not; and I shall probably display my ignorance with the first word out of my mouth. But what matter. I am simply trying to tell of what these poor mortal eyes have seen.