The Darrow Enigma, Melvin L. Severy [free biff chip and kipper ebooks TXT] 📗
- Author: Melvin L. Severy
- Performer: -
Book online «The Darrow Enigma, Melvin L. Severy [free biff chip and kipper ebooks TXT] 📗». Author Melvin L. Severy
a man had been there, but only once or twice and he was not sure he
could place him. I then went up to the South End and on Decatur
Street found a man who promptly responded to my inquiries: ‘Gad!
that’s Henri Cazot fast enough, in all but the height and gait.
Dick there, he’ll tell you all about him. He owes him a little
debt of honour of about a hundred plunks. He gave him his note for
it, and Dick carries it around with him, not because he thinks he’ll
ever get it, but he likes the writing. M. Henri Cazot! eh, Dick?’
and he burst into a coarse laugh. I turned to Dick for further
information. He had already produced a much-crumpled paper and was
smoothing it out upon the table.
“‘There’s the article,’ he said, bringing his hand down emphatically
upon it. ‘The cuss was hard up. Luck had gone agin him and he had
lost every cent he had. Jem Macey was a-dealin’ and Cazot didn’t
seem to grasp that fact, but kept bettin’ heavy. You see, young
feller, ye ain’t over likely to win at cards when yer playin’ agin
the dealer. Cazot didn’t know this and I wouldn’t tell him, for he
was rather fly with the cards himself when he wan’t watched too
close. Well, he struck me for a loan; said his little girl was
hungry and he hadn’t a cent to buy bread. Gad, but he looked wild
though! I always thought he was more’n half loony. Well, as I had
helped to fleece him I lent him a hundred and took this here note.
That’s the last I ever see of M. Henri Cazot,’ and he handed the
paper to me. I glanced at the signature. It was the same hand that
had written ‘Weltz’ and ‘Rizzi’ upon the library slips. There was
that unmistakable z and the peculiar r which had just attracted my
attention! It required considerable effort on my part to so restrain
my feelings as not to appear especially interested in what I had
learned. I think, however, I succeeded, as they freely answered my
questions regarding Cazot and the daughter of whom he had spoken.
They knew nothing further, they said, than what they had told me.
“‘It was a year ago come next month that I lent him the money,’ my
informant continued. He pocketed it, hurried out, and that is the
last I have ever seen or heard of him. Shouldn’t wonder if he’d
blown his brains out long ago. He used to have a mighty desperate
look at times. He was one of them Monte Carlo fellers, I reckon.’
“That’s all I have been able to learn thus far. It isn’t very much,
but it shows we are on the right track. By the way, Doc, I’m going
to change that ad to-morrow, offering treatment by letter. Perhaps
our man is too shy to apply in person. At all events we’ll give the
other method a trial.”
When we least expect it the Ideal meets us in the street of the
Commonplace and locks arms with us. Nevermore shall we choose
our paths uninfluenced. A new leaven has entered our personality
to dominate and direct it.
The new advertisement duly appeared and on the next day, which was
Wednesday - I remember it because it was my hospital day - I received
several written answers, and among them, one in which I felt confident
I recognised the peculiar z*‘s and r*‘s of Weltz and Rizzi.
I took it at once to Maitland. He glanced at it a moment and then
impulsively grasped my hand. “By Jove, Doc!” he exclaimed, “if this
crafty fox doesn’t scent the hound, we shall soon run him to earth.
You see he has given no address and signs a new name. We are to write
to Carl Cazenove, General Delivery, Boston. Good! we will do so at
once, and I will then arrange with the postal authorities to notify
me when they deliver the letter. Of course this will necessitate a
continuous watch, perhaps for several days, of the general delivery
window. It is hardly likely our crafty friend will himself call for
the letter, so it will be imperative that someone be constantly on
hand to shadow whomsoever he may send as a substitute. May I depend
on your assistance in this matter?”
“I will stand by you till we see the thing through,” I said, “though
I have to live in the Post Office a month.”
Well, I wrote and mailed the decoy letter and Maitland explained the
situation to the postal authorities, who furnished us a comfortable
place inside and near the general delivery window. They promised to
notify us when anyone called for our letter. Our vigil was not a
very long one. On Thursday afternoon the postal clerk signalled to
us that Carl Cazenove’s mail had been asked for, and, while he was
consuming as much time as possible in finding our letter, Maitland
and I quietly stepped out into the corridor. The sight that met our
gaze was one for which we had not been at all prepared. There at the
window stood a beautiful young girl just on the verge of womanhood.
Her frank blue eyes met mine with the utmost candour as I passed by
her so that she should be between Maitland and me, and thus unable
to elude us, whichever way she turned upon leaving the window. We
had previously planned how we should shadow our quarry, one on each
side of the street in order not to attract attention, but these
tactics seemed to be entirely unnecessary, for the young lady did
not have the slightest suspicion that anyone could be in the least
interested in her movements. She walked leisurely along, stopping
now occasionally to gaze at the shop windows and never once turning
to look back. She did not even conceal the letter, but held it in
her hand with her porte-monnaie, and I could see that the address
was uppermost. A strange sensation came over me as I dogged her
steps. I felt as an assassin must feel who tracks his victim into
some lonely spot where he may dare to strike him. It was useless
for me to tell myself that I was on the side of justice and engaged
in an honourable errand. A single glance at the girl’s delicate
face, as frank and open as the morning light, brought the hot blush
of shame to my cheek. In following her I dimly felt that, in some
way, I was seeking to associate her with evil, which seemed little
less than sacrilege. I could do nothing, however, but keep on, so
I followed her through Devonshire Street, to New Washington and
thence down Hanover Street almost to the ferry. Here she turned
into an alleyway and, waiting for Maitland to come up, we both
saw her enter a house at its farther end.
George glanced hastily up at the house and then said, as he seized
me impatiently by the arm: “It’s a tenement house; come on, the
chase is not up yet; we, too, must go in!”
So in we went. The young lady had disappeared, but as we entered
we heard a door close on the floor above, and felt sure we knew
where she had gone. We mounted the stairs as noiselessly as
possible and listened in the hall. We could distinguish a woman’s
voice and occasionally that of a man, but we could not hear what
passed between them. On our right there was a door partly ajar.
Maitland pushed it open, and looked in. The room was empty and
unfurnished, with the exception of a dilapidated stove which stood
against the partition separating this room from the one the young
lady had entered. Maitland beckoned to me and I followed him into
the room. There was a key on the inside of the door which he
noiselessly turned in the lock. He then began to investigate the
premises. Three other rooms communicated with the one of which we
had taken possession, forming, evidently, a suite which had been
let for housekeeping. Everything was in ill-repair, as is the
case with most of the cheap tenements in this locality. The
previous tenant had not thought it necessary to clean the apartments
when quitting them, - for altruism does not flourish at the North
End, - but had been content to leave all the dirt for the next
occupant.
When we had finished reconnoitering we returned to the room we first
entered, which apparently was the kitchen. We could still hear
the voices, but not distinctly. “Do you stay here, Doc,” whispered
Maitland, “while I get into some old clothes and hunt up the
landlord of this place. I’m going to rent these rooms long enough
to acquaint myself with my neighbours on the other side of the wall.
I’ll be back soon. Don’t let any man leave that room without your
knowing where he goes.” With this he left me and I soon found a
way to busy myself in his absence. In the wall above the stove,
where the pipe passed through the partition into our neighbour’s
apartment, there was a chink large enough to permit me, when
mounted upon the stove, to overlook the greater part of the adjacent
room. I availed myself of this privilege, though not without those
same twinges of conscience which I had felt some minutes before
when following the young lady. The apartment was poorly furnished,
and yet, despite this scantiness of appointment, there was
unmistakable evidence of refinement. Everything visible in the
room was scrupulously neat and the few pictures that adorned the
walls, while they were inexpensive half-tones, were yet reproductions
of masterpieces. In the centre of the room stood a small, deal
table, on the opposite side of which sat the man who had answered my
letter.
At one end of the table, poised upon the back of a chair, sat a
small Capucin monkey of the Weeper or Sai species. He watched the
man with that sober, judicial air which is by no means confined
exclusively to supreme benches. I, too, observed the man carefully.
He was tall and spare. He must have measured nearly six feet in
height and could not, I think, have weighed over one hundred and
fifty pounds. His face was pinched and careworn, but this effect
was more than redeemed by a pair of full, black eyes having a depth
and penetration I have never seen equalled, albeit there was, ever
and anon, a suggestion of wildness which somewhat marred their deep,
contemplative beauty. The brows and the carriage of the head at
once bespoke the scholar. While thus I watched him, the young girl
came from a corner of the room I could not overlook and laid my
letter before him. She stood behind his chair as he opened it,
smoothing his hair caressingly and, every now and then, kissing him
gently. He paused with the open letter before him, reached up both
arms, drew her down to him, kissed her passionately, sighed, and
picked up the letter again. I took pains that no act, word, or look
should escape me. This show of affection surprised me, and I
remember the thought flashed through my mind, “What inconsistent
beings we all are! Here is a man apparently capable of a causeless
and cold-blooded assassination of a harmless old man. You would
say such a murderer must be hopelessly selfish and brutal, amenable
to none of the better sentiments of mankind, and yet it needs but
a casual glance to see how his whole life is bound up in the young
girl before him.”
While this was
Comments (0)