The Gates of Chance Part 20

I had nothing more to say, and shortly afterwards we pulled up at No.

4020 Madison Avenue. Bolder and the hackman carried the trunk in, and Indiman directed that it should be placed in the library, the front room on the first landing. The cabman was paid and dismissed, and we were left alone.

"Now for it," said Indiman, gayly. "I have always preferred mutton to lamb."

The trunk was of the cheap variety, covered with brown paper that vaguely simulated leather. It was perfectly new, and this was probably its first trip on the road. The lock was of simple construction. It should be easy to find a key to fit it, and one of mine, with a little filing, did the trick. The bolt shot back, and Indiman unhesitatingly threw up the lid.

There was no tray in the trunk, and the interior s.p.a.ce was filled with some bulky article that had been carefully shrouded by manifold layers of cloth wrappings. I know that the same thought was in both our minds, but neither of us spoke. A keen-bladed ink-eraser lay on the desk before me, and I handed it to Indiman. He made a swift cut in the wrappings and drew the severed edges apart--a naked human foot protruded. To this hour I have only to shut my eyes to immediately recall that horrid vision. I remember particularly the purplish hue of the swollen veins, the unmistakable rigidity of the joints and muscles.

Indiman shut down the lid and turned the key in the lock. We looked, white-faced, one at the other, then at the maid-servant who stood not ten feet away. Had she been any nearer?

"What is it, Mary?" said Indiman, sharply.

The girl, confused and stammering, explained that she had come in to sweep; she had no idea that Mr. Indiman was in the library. No, the door was not locked, and she had just that moment walked in. Indiman cut short her apologies, and, with a tolerable a.s.sumption of indifference, dismissed her to her duties elsewhere.

"Unfortunate," he remarked, with a frown.

"I doubt if she could have seen anything," I answered, rea.s.suringly. "I should have heard her if she had come any nearer, and the trunk was only open for a second or two."

"Quite long enough for anything to happen," said Indiman. "I say, Thorp, but this is a go," he went on, c.o.c.kily enough. Then suddenly the steadiness went out of his voice, like a match-light in a high wind, and he finished with a little, choking gasp, "Just the very--rummest go."

I don't remember that we had a drink on the strength of it, but it's more than probable. Then we sat down to consider.

The natural, the obvious, and the only proper course of action was to go at once to Police Headquarters and make a frank statement of the case with its attendant circ.u.mstances. True, we were undistinguished citizens, with neither pull nor influence, but surely respectability must count for something, even as against charges of admitted theft and suspected murder. If we owned up now we should be subjected, doubtless, to more or less annoyance growing out of the affair, but the position would be infinitely less difficult than if we waited for events to force it upon us. "Murder will out," I quoted.

"So they say," answered Indiman, and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.

And yet in the end we abandoned this eminently sane conclusion, deciding that we would keep our own counsel and let the matter work itself out. For such a crime as murder does not end with the actual deed; the rupturing of the thousand and one ties that bind even the most insignificant of lives to the general body of human existence cannot be accomplished without some disturbance; a circle has myriad points, and at any one of them the interrupted current may again begin to flow. Perchance the message falls upon indifferent ears or is too feeble and incoherent in itself to compel attention. In this event the signals must necessarily grow weaker and more infrequent until they finally cease altogether--the crime is now an accomplished fact, the chapter is finally closed. Or, again, the call may come as plangent and insistent as the stroke of a fire-alarm; the whole community hears and instantly understands; the murder is out.

Now either of us could presume to measure the precise quality of odic force inherent in the grisly mystery that lay under our hand; the affair might range from the dignity of a cause celebre to the commonplace of a purely commercial transaction--the economical transportation of a medical college "subject." It was this very uncertainty that fascinated our imaginations and so allowed the sober judgment to be deposed. Our ostensible argument was that the police would be sure to make a mess of the affair. If that idiot, Detective Brownson, took hold of it, the G.o.ddess Justice might throw up her hands as well as close her eyes. And inwardly we desired to cherish our secret out of the same sense of fearful joy with which one listens to a ghost story--we had tasted the coal-black wine pressed from forbidden grapes, and we craved a yet deeper draught. Finally, a connoisseur does not willingly relinquish a good find, whatever the circ.u.mstances; there are bibliomaniacs who will not hesitate to steal what they may not otherwise procure. I myself know a charming woman who collects j.a.panese sword-guards AT ANY COST (I have her husband's authority for this statement).

But, seriously again, the grip of the mystery was upon us; the inclination had become irresistible to see the thing out, or at least to let it run a little further, just as a child amuses itself with fire--the desire to see what will happen. Later on it might be necessary to pull up sharply, but the contingency would doubtless provide for itself. The ultimate fact remained that here was a genuine adventure, and as connoisseurs of romance we were bound to exploit it to the utmost limit of our ability. So be it, then.

"The finding of that organ-grinder is our first and obvious procedure,"

said Indiman, slowly. "And the clew to his ident.i.ty lies, as you have explained, in his instrument."

"The organ itself is a criminal; it murders 'Celeste Aida.'"

"I believe that most of these instruments are rented from one company,"

continued Indiman. "We can find out definitely at the city License Bureau, and we might as well make that the starting-point of our investigations. We have plenty of time before luncheon; it is barely twelve o'clock."

"But shouldn't we begin with--with the thing itself," I objected, and glanced nervously at the big trunk standing in the middle of the floor.

The ident.i.ty of the victim--it may be possible to establish it--a most important point, surely."

"I'll have to pa.s.s up that part of it--at least for the present," said Indiman, frankly. "But we must get the box out of sight somewhere. The weather"--and here he gave a little involuntary shudder--"is getting warmer. We'd better get it down into the cellar. I'll see if the way is clear."

The servants were all busy in the upper part of the house, and we succeeded in getting the trunk down into the cellar un.o.bserved, stowing it away temporarily in an empty coal-bin. On our way up-stairs we encountered the maid, Mary, and something in the hasty way in which she stood back to let us pa.s.s stirred again my vague suspicions. But there was nothing to say or do; we must trust to luck.

Then there was no difficulty in finding the office of the company that leases hand-organs to itinerant musicians, and the manager, an Americanized Italian, was most courteous in answering our inquiries. It appeared that this particular aria of "Celeste Aida" was only included in the repertoire of some half-dozen of the older instruments. It chanced that they were all in stock at the present time, and it would be no trouble at all to let us hear them play. "Our incomparable maestro--he is no longer remembered," said the manager, mournfully.

"The public--now it is that they demand what you calla hot stuff--'Loosianner Loo' and the 'Lobster Intermezzo,' Per Bacco! if they would but open their ears--la--la--there it goes--

'"Ce-le-ste A-i-da, For-ma di-vi-na'--

Ah, gentlemen, THAT is musica."

An amiable person, but we were wasting both his and our time. Each one of the six organs reproduced the original notation of the aria, and the imperfect instrument must therefore be in private hands. So we returned thanks to Mr. Gualdo Sarto for his courtesy, and went away somewhat disheartened. Haystacks are large places and needles small objects.

Two days went by--days spent in aimless wandering about the streets waiting for a distant hand-organ to give tongue. Then a hot chase, only to draw another blank.

On the third day I came home alone about five o'clock. The weather was really hot again, and I was tired out with tramping. Yet a little chill ran down my spine as I happened to glance across the street and caught sight of a man's face in an areaway. He had been watching me; of that I was certain.

I went up to the library and sat there waiting for Indiman. The man in the areaway waited also.

At half after six Indiman appeared. He, too, had been unsuccessful; I could see it in his face before he spoke. I told him of the suspicious loiterer across the street. Together we kept close watch on the areaway, and after a while the fellow came out and strolled off with what was intended to pa.s.s as jaunty indifference. But we were not deceived.

"That fool of a girl has talked," said Indiman. "Looks like it."

"See here, Thorp, that thing in the cellar--we'll have to do something at once."

I nodded.

"The flooring in the coal-bin is brick; it won't be difficult to take up a section large enough for--"

I nodded again.

I shan't forget what we did that night--the stealing down into the echoing cellar--the flickering of the candle-light on the white-washed walls--the sound of the spade clinking against a casual stone.

How we worked! Like slaves under the lash--an actual lash of terror.

For we were afraid, frankly and honestly afraid, of what we had done and of what we were doing. I know that the sweat fairly poured off me.

My word! but it WAS hot, and there was a fearful significance in the thought that urged us on to even greater exertions.

It had to be done, and at last it was, the bricks neatly replaced and the surplus earth packed away in gunny-sacks to be removed at the first favorable opportunity. Then in the gray dawn we drew ourselves wearily up-stairs, and, separating without a word, went to our rooms. Was it pure, malignant chance that the maid, Mary, pa.s.sed me on her way down-stairs and glanced, with a curious, shrinking repugnance, at my earth-stained and dusty clothes? I did not care; I was dog-tired and I wanted but one thing--bed. I reached my couch, fell sprawling upon it, and slept for seven hours straight.

It was a relief to awake from the phantasmagoria of horrors that crowded my dreams. It was nearly two o'clock, and I had written to my friend Ellison asking him to luncheon at that hour. The meal was rather a silent one for two of us, but Ellison talked incessantly. He was in high spirits, having just been appointed to a university professorship in physiology--his specialty. "I've been busy getting my lecture material together," he explained, and "I had a beastly piece of bad luck the other day. My own fault, I suppose, but it ill.u.s.trates the point that our American baggage system is still far from perfection.

Now the European idea--"

"Shall we go into the library for coffee," said Indiman, a little abruptly, and I could see that Ellison's chatter was beginning to get on his nerves; my own were vibrating like harp-strings. I walked over to one of the library windows and looked out, just in time to catch sight of a man backing quickly into the shadow of the areaway opposite.

From down the street came the sound of a childish voice singing. Great Heavens! It was Verdi's aria "Celeste Aida," with F natural in the third bar instead of F sharp.

"I am going out for a few minutes," I said, carelessly. "Just around the corner to get a special-delivery stamp. Of course you'll wait, Ellison," and I gave Indiman a quick glance. He understood.

Perhaps I was shadowed by the watchers in the areaway. I neither knew nor cared. My one idea was to catch up with the child, and this time luck was with me.

The little girl acknowledged shyly that she had learned the tune from a hand-organ. "It belongs to my uncle Bartolomeo," she explained, proudly. "It is a good organ, signore. There are little figures of men and women under the gla.s.s front, and when the musica plays they dance--so."

Uncle Bartolomeo was fortunately at home, and I persuaded him to accompany me back to 4020 Madison Avenue. He spoke English perfectly, and looked both honest and shrewd. Well, we would find some way of getting the truth out of him.

A police-officer opened the door for me. So the blow had fallen already. I went on up to the library, taking Bartolomeo with me. At the door I waited a moment.