Unkown - "Vida de Lazarillo"

A. B. Paterson - "Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses"

William Shakespeare - "The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra"

Lysander Spooner - "An Essay on the Trial By Jury"

The Voice on the Wire

E >> Eustace Hale Ball >> The Voice on the Wire




The man directed him to the door on the left. Closed as it was
the sounds of merrymaking emanated into the corridor. Shirley's
pressure on the bell was answered by Shine Taylor's startled
face. Warren stood behind him. The surprise of the pair amused
Shirley, but their composure bespoke trained self-control.

"I'm sorry to be late," was the criminologist's greeting. "But I
came up to apologize for not being able to bring Miss Marigold.
We missed connections somewhere, and I couldn't find her."

"I am so pleased to have you with us anyway. We'll try to get
along without her--" but Warren was interrupted to his
discomfiture.

A silvery laugh came from the hallway behind him. Helene
Marigold waved a champagne glass at Shirley.

"There's my tardy escort now. I'm here, Shirley old top! Te,
he! You see I played a little joke on you this afternoon and
eloped with a handsomer man than you." She leaned unsteadily
against the door post and waved a white hand at him as she
coaxed. "Come on in, old dear, and don't be cross now with your
little Bonbon Tootems!"

Taylor and Warren exchanged glances, for this was an unexpected
sally. But they were prompt in their effusive cordiality, as
they assisted Shirley in removing his overcoat, and hanging his
hat with those of the other guests. He placed his cane against
the hall tree, and followed his host into the jollified
apartment. He did not overlook the swift glide of Shine's hand
into each of his overcoat pockets in the brief interval. Here
was a skilful "dip"--Shirley, however, had taken care that the
pickpocket would find nothing to worry him in the overcoat.

Warren's establishment was a gorgeous one. To Shirley it was
hard to harmonize the character of the man as he had already
deduced it with the evident passion for the beautiful. That
such a connoisseur of art objects could harbor in so broad and
cultured a mind the machinations of such infamy seemed almost
incredible. The riddle was not new with Reginald Warren's case:
for morals and "culture" have shown their sociological, economic
and even diplomatic independence of each other from the time when
the memory of man runneth not!

Shirley's admiration was shrewdly sensed by his host. So after a
tactful introduction to the self-absorbed merrymakers, now in all
stages of stimulated exuberance, he conducted his guest on a tour
of inspection about his rooms.

"So, you like etchings? I want you to see my five Whistlers.
Here is my Fritz Thaulow, and there is my Corot. This crayon by
Von Lenbach is a favorite of mine." His black eyes sparkled with
pride as he pointed out one gem after another in this veritable
storehouse of artistic surprises. Few of the jolly throng gave
evidence of appreciating them: the man was curiously superior to
his associations in education as well as the patent evidence
which Shirley now observed of being to the manor born. Helene
Marigold, ensconced in a big library chair, her feet curled under
her, pink fingers supporting the oval chin, dreamily watched
Shirley's absorption. She seemed almost asleep, but her mind
drank in each mood that fired the criminologist's face, as he
thoroughly relaxed from his usual bland superiority of mien, to
revel in the treasures.

Ivory masterpieces, Hindu carvings, bronzes, landscapes, rare
wood-cuts, water colors--such a harmonious variety he had seldom
seen in any private collection. The library was another
thesaurus: rich bindings encased volumes worthy of their garb.
The books, furthermore, showed the mellowing evidence of frequent
use; here was no patron of the instalment editions-de-luxe!

"You like my things," and Warren's voice purred almost happily.
There was a softening change in his attitude, which Shirley
understood. The appreciation of a fellow worshiper warmed his
heart. "My books--all bound privately, you know, for I hate shop
bindings. Most of them from second-hand stalls, redolent with
the personalities of half a hundred readers. Books are so much
more worth reading when they have been read and read again.
Don't you think so?"

"Yes. I see your tastes run to the modern school. Individualism,
even morbidity: Spencer, Nietsche, Schopenhauer, Tolstoi, Kropotkin,
Gorky--They express your thoughts collectively?"

"Yes, but not radically enough. My entire intellectual life has
driven me forward--I am a disciple of the absolute freedom, the
divinity of self, and--but there I invited you to a joy party,
not a university seminar."

"But the party will grow riper with age," and Shirley was prone
to continue the autopsy. "You are a university man. Where did
you study?"

"Sipping here and there," and a forgivable vanity lightened
Warren's face. "Gottingen, Warsaw, Jena, Oxford, Milan, The
Sorbonne and even at Heidelberg, the jolly old place. You see my
scar?" He pulled back a lock of his wavy black hair from the
left temple to show a cut from a student duelist's sword. "But
you Americans--I mean, we Americans--we have such opportunities
to pick up the best things from the rest of the world."

"No, Warren," and Shirley shook his head, not overlooking the
slight break which indicated that his host was a foreigner,
despite the quick change. "I have been to busy wasting time to
collect anything but fleeting memories. Too much polo, swimming,
yachting, golfing--I have fallen into evil ways. I think your
example may reform me. You must dine with me at my club some
day, and give me some hints about making such wonderful
purchases."

"I know the most wonderful antique shop," Warren began, and just
then was interrupted by Shine Taylor and a dizzy blonde person
with whom he maxixed through the Hindu draperies, each deftly
balancing a champagne glass.

"Here, Reg, you neglect your other guests. Come on in!" Shine's
companion held out a wine glass to Warren, but her eyes were
fixed in a fascinated stare upon Montague Shirley,

"Why, what are you doing here?"

It was little Dolly Marion, Van Cleft's companion on the fatal
automobile ride. She trembled: the glass fell to the floor with
a tinkly crash. Shirley smiled indulgently. Taylor and Warren
exchanged looks, but Monty knew that they must by this time be
aware of his command to the girl to abstain from gay
associations.

"You couldn't resist the call of the wild, could you, Miss
Dolly?"

The girl sheepishly giggled, and danced out of the room, to sink
into a chair, wondering what this visitation meant. Another
masculine butterfly pressed more champagne upon her, and in a few
moments she had forgotten to worry about anything more important
than the laws of gravity. Warren had been rudely dragged away
from his intellectual kinship with his guest. His manner
changed, almost indefinably, but Shirley understood. He looked
at Helene, a little bundle of sleepy sweetness in the big chair.

"Well, Miss! Where did you go when I left you on my call of
condolence to Howard Van Cleft? He leaves town to-night for a
trip on his yacht, and it was my last chance to say good-bye."

"Where is he going?" was Warren's lapsus linguae, at this bit of
news.

"Down to the Gulf, I believe. Do you know him, Warren? Nice
chap. Too bad about his father's sudden death from heart
failure, wasn't it? He told me they were putting in supplies for
a two months' cruise and would not be able to sail before three
in the morning."

"I don't know Van Cleft," was Warren's guarded reply. "Of
course, I read of his sad loss. But he is so rich now that he
can wipe out his grief with a change of scene and part of the
inheritance. It's being done in society, these days."

"Poor Van Cleft! He's besieged by blackmailers, who threaten to
lay bare his father's extravagant innuendos, unless he pays fifty
thousand dollars. He can afford it, but as he says, it's war
times and money is scarce as brunette chorus girls. He has put
the matter before the District Attorney and is going to sail for
Far Cathay until they round up the gang. These criminals are so
clumsy nowadays, I imagine it will be an easy task, don't you,
Warren?"

The other man's eyes narrowed to black slits as he studied the
childlike expression of Shirley's face. He wondered if there
could be a covert threat in this innocent confidence. He
answered laconically: "Oh, I suppose so. We read about crooks
in the magazines and then see their capers in the motion picture
thrillers, but down in real life, we find them a sordid,
unimaginative lot of rogues."

He proffered Shirley a cigarette from his jeweled case. As he
leaned toward the table to draw a match from the small bronze
holder, Helene observed Shirley deftly substitute it for one of
his own, secreting the first.

"Yes," continued Shirley, "the criminal who is caught generally
loses his game because he is mechanical and ungifted with talent.
But think of the criminals who have yet to be captured--the
brilliant, the inspired ones, the chess-players of wickedness who
love their game and play it with the finesse of experts."

Shirley smoothed away the ripple of suspicion which he had
mischievously aroused with, "So, that is why fellows like us would
not bother with the life. The same physical and intellectual effort
expended by a criminal genius would bring him money and power with
no clutching legal hand to fear. But there, we're getting morbid.
What I really want to do is to satisfy my vanity. Where did Miss
Marigold disappear?"

"Talking about me?" and Helene opened her eyes languorously. "I
was so tired waiting for you that when Mr. Warren came along in
his wonderful new car I yielded to his invitation, so we enjoyed
that tea-room trip which you had promised. Such a lark! Then we
came up here where I had the most wonderful dinner with him and
three girls. I was tired and sleepy, so I dozed away on that
library davenport until the party began--and there you are and
here I are, and so, forgive me, Monty?"

She slipped nimbly to the floor, with a maddening display of a
silken ankle, advancing to the criminologist with a wistful
playfulness which brought a flush of sudden feeling, to the face
of Reginald Warren. Helene was carrying out his directions to
the letter, Shirley observed.

They lingered at Warren's festivities until a wee sma' hour,
Helene pretending to share the conviviality, while actually
maintaining a hawk-like watch upon the two conspirators as she
now felt them to be. She was amused by the frequency with
which Shine Taylor and Reginald Warren plied their guest with
cigarettes: Shirley's legerdemain in substituting them was worthy
of the vaudeville stage.

"The wine and my smoking have made me drowsy," he told her, with
no effort at concealment. "We must get home or I'll fall asleep
myself."

A covert smile flitted across Warren's pale face, as Shirley
unconventionally indulged in several semi-polite yawns, nodding
a bit, as well. Helene accepted glass after glass of wine,
thoughtfully poured out by her host. And as thoughtfully, did
she pour it into the flower vases when his back was turned: she
matched the other girls' acute transports of vinous joy without
an error. Shirley walked to the window, asking if he might open
it for a little fresh air. Warren nodded smiling.

"You are well on the way to heaven in this altitude of eight
stories," volunteered Shirley, with a sleepy laugh.

"Yes. The eighth and top floor. A burglar could make a good
haul of my collection, except that I have the window to the fire
escape barred from the inside, around the corner facing to the
north. Here, I am safe from molestation."

"A great view of the Park--what a fine library for real reading;
and I see you have a typewriter--the same make I used to thump,
when I did newspaper work--a Remwood. Let me see some of your
literary work, sometime--"

Warren waved a deprecating hand. "Very little--editors do not
like it. I do better with an adding machine down on Wall Street
than a typewriter. But let us join the others." There was a
noticeable reluctance about dwelling upon the typewriter subject.
Warren hurried into the drawing-room, as Shirley followed with a
perceptible stagger.

Shine Taylor scrutinized his condition, as he asked for another
cigarette. As he yielded to an apparent craving for sleep, the
others danced and chatted, while Taylor disappeared through the
hall door. After a few minutes he returned to grimace slightly
at Warren. Shirley roused himself from his stupor.

"Bonbon, let us be going. Good-night, everybody."

He walked unsteadily to the door, amid a chorus of noisy farewells,
with Helene unsteady and hilarious behind him. Warren and Shine
seemed satisfied with their hospitable endeavors, as they bade
good-night. The elevator brought up two belated guests, the roseate
Pinkie and a colorless youth.

"Oh, are you going, Mr. Shirley? What a blooming shame. I just
left the most wonderful supper-party at the Claridge to see you."

"Too bad: I hope for better luck next time."

"The elevator is waiting," and Helene's gaze was scornful.
Shirley restrained his smile at the girl's covert hatred of the
redhaired charmer. Then he asked maliciously: "Isn't she
interesting? Too bad she associates with her inferiors."

"You put it mildly."

"Here, boy, call a taxicab," he ordered the attendant, as they
reached the lower level.

"Sorry, boss, but I dassent leave the elevator at this time of
night. I'm the only one in the place jest now."

Shirley insisted, with a duty soother of silver, but the negro
returned in a few minutes, shaking his head. Shirley ordered him
to telephone the nearest hacking-stand. Then followed another
delay, without result.

"Come, Miss Helene, there is method in this. Let us walk, as it
seems to have been planned we should."

"Is it wise? Why put yourself in their net?"

For reply, he placed in her hand the walking stick which he had
so carefully guarded when they entered the apartment. It was
heavier than a policeman's nightstick. As he retook it, she
observed the straightening line of his lips.

"As the French say, 'We shall see what we shall see.' Please
walk a little behind me, so that my right arm may be free."

It was after two, and the street was dark. Shirley had noted an
arc-light on the corner when he had entered the building--now it
was extinguished. A man lurched forward as they turned into
Sixth Avenue, his eyes covered by a dark cap.

"Say gent! Give a guy that's down an' out the price of a beef
stew? I got three pennies an' two more'll fix me."

"No!"

"Aw, gent, have a heart!" The man was persistent, drawing
closer, as Shirley walked an with his companion, into the
increasing darkness, away from the corner. Another figure
appeared from a dark doorway.

"I'm broke too, Mister. Kin yer help a poor war refugee on a
night like this?"

Shirley slipped his left hand inside his coat pocket and drew out
a handkerchief to the surprise of the men. He suddenly drew
Helene back against the wall, and stood between her and the two
men.

"What do you thugs want?" snapped the criminologist, as he
clenched the cane tightly and held the handkerchief in his left
hand. There was no reply. The men realized that he knew their
purpose--one dropped to a knee position as the other sprang
forward. The famous football toe shot forward with more at stake
than ever in the days when the grandstands screeched for a field
goal. At the same instant he swung the loaded cane upon the
shoulders of the upright man, missing his head.

The second man swung a blackjack.

The first, with a bleeding face staggered to his feet.

The handkerchief went up to the mouth of the active assailant,
and to Helene's astonishment, he sank back with a moan. Shirley
pounced upon his mate, and after a slight tussle, applied the
handkerchief with the same benumbing effect. Then he rolled it
up and tossed it far from him.

He took a police whistle from his pocket and blew it three times.
His assailants lay quietly on the ground, so that when the
officer arrived he found an immaculately garbed gentleman dusting
off his coat shoulder, and looking at his watch.

"What is it, sir?" he cried.

"A couple of drunks attacked me, after I wouldn't give them a
handout. Then they passed away. You won't need my complaint
--look at them--"

The policeman shook the men, but they seemed helpless except to
groan and hold their heads in mute agony, dull and apparently
unaware of what was going on about them.

"Well, if you don't want to press the charge of assault?"

"No. I may have it looked up by my attorney. Tonight I do not
care to take my wife to the stationhouse with me. They ought to
get thirty days, at that."

Shirley took Helene's arm, and the officer nodded.

"I'll send for the wagon, sir. They're some pickled.
Good-night."

As they walked up to the nearest car crossing, Helene turned to
him with her surprise unabated.

"What did you do to them, Mr. Shirley?"

"Merely crushed a small vial of Amyl nitrite which I thoughtfully
put in my handkerchief this afternoon. It is a chemical whose
fumes are used for restoring people afflicted with heart failure:
with men like these, and the amount of the liquid which I gave
them for perfume, the result was the same as complete
unconsciousness from drunkenness.--Science is a glorious thing,
Miss Helene."




CHAPTER XVII

IN WHICH SHIRLEY SURPRISES HIMSELF


They reached the hotel without untoward adventure.

"Perhaps we might find a little corner in that dining-room I saw
this afternoon, with an obliging waiter to bring us something to
eat. Shall we try? I need a lot of coffee, for I am going down
to the dock of the Yacht Club to await developments."

"You big silly boy," she cautioned, with a maternal note in her
voice which was very sweet to bachelor ears from such a maiden
mouth, "you must not let Nature snap. You have a wonderful
physique but you must go home to bed."

"It can't be done--I want to hear about your little visit to the
apartment, and the story of the diary. I'll ask the clerk."

A bill glided across the register of the hotel desk, and the
greeter promised to attend to the club sandwiches himself. He
led them to a cosey table, in the deserted room, and started out
to send the bell-boy to a nearby lunchroom.

"Just a minute please,--if any one calls up Miss Marigold, don't
let them know she has returned. I have something important to
say, without interruption: you understand?"

"Yes, I get you, sir," and the droll part was that with a
familiarity generated of the hotel arts he did understand even
better than Shirley or Helene. He had seen many other young
millionaires and golden-haired actresses. Shirley looked across
the table into the astral blue of those gorgeous eyes. Certain
unbidden, foolish words strove to liberate themselves from his
stubborn lips.

"I am a consummate idiot!" was all that escaped, and Helene
looked her surprise.

"Why, have you made a mistake?"

"I hope not. But tell me of Warren's mistake."

She had been waiting what seemed an eternity before Van Cleft's
house, when a big machine drew up alongside. Warren greeted
her with a smiling invitation to leave Shirley guessing. Her
willingness to go, she felt, would disarm his suspicions. The
little dinner in the apartment with Shine, Warren and three girls
had been in good taste enough: pretending, however, to be
overcome with weariness she persuaded them to let her cuddle up
on the couch, where she feigned sleep. Warren had tossed an
overcoat over her and left the apartment with the others,
promising to return in a few minutes. He had said to Shine,
"She'll be quiet until we return--it may be a good alibi to have
her here." Then he had disappeared, wearing only a soft hat,
with no other overcoat. Listening at the closed hall door, she
heard him direct the elevator man, "Second off, Joe." The door
was locked from the outside. The servant's entrance was locked,
all the bedrooms locked, every one with a Yale lock above the
ordinary keyhole. The Chinese cook had been sent out sometime
before to buy groceries and wine for the later party.

"But where did you find the note-book? It may send him to the
electric chair." Monty Shirley was lighting one of the
cigarettes handed him by his host. He sniffed at it and crushed
out the embers at the end. "This cigarette would have sent me to
dreamland for a day at least--Warren understands as much
chemistry as I do."

"At first I studied the books in the library out of curiosity and
then noticed that three books were shoved in, out of alignment
with the others on the shelf. With a manservant in the house,
instead of a woman, of course things needed dusting. But where
these three books were it had been rubbed off! I took out the
books, reached behind and found the little leather volume. It
was simple. I went to his typewriter when I saw that the pages
were all typed, and took out some note-paper, from the bronze
rack."

"And then, Miss Sleuth?"

"Don't laugh at me. I had heard of the legal phrase 'corroborative
evidence,' so knowing that it would be necessary to connect that
typewriter with the book, I rattled off a few lines on the machine.
Here it is: it will show the individuality of the machine to an
expert."

"You wonderful girl!" he murmured simply. She protested, "Don't
tease me. I have watched you and am learning some of your simple
but complete methods of working. I understand you better than
you think."

"Go on with your story," and Shirley was uncomfortable, although
he knew not why.

"That is the end of my tale of woe. The kitchen being open, I
took advantage of the dumb-waiter, as you already know. It's
fortunate that waiter is dumb, for it must have many lurid
confessions to make. I never saw such an interminable shaft; it
seemed higher than the Eiffel Tower. See how I blistered my
hands on the rope, letting myself down."

She opened her palms, showing the red souvenirs of the coarse
strands. Almost unconsciously she placed her soft fingers within
Shirley's for a brief instant. She quickly drew them away,
sensing a blush beneath the cosmetics, glad that he could not
detect it. That gentle contact thrilled Shirley again, even as
the dear memory of the tired cheek against his shoulder, during
the automobile trip of the previous night.

"After finding you so accidentally and returning with your aid,
on the little elevator, I threw myself back into the original
pose on the big couch. It was just in time, for Warren returned.
His cook came in shortly afterward. I imagine that he allows no
one in that apartment, ordinarily, when he is not there himself.
But what, sir, do you think I discovered upon the shoulder of his
coat?"

Shirley shook his head. "A beautiful crimson hair," he asked
gravely, "from the sun-kissed forehead of the delectable Pinkie? Or
was it white, from the tail of the snowy charger which tradition
informs us always lurks in the vicinity of auburn-haired
enchantresses?"

"Nothing so romantic. Just cobwebs! He saw me looking at them,
and brushed them off very quickly."

"The man thinks he is a wine bottle of rare vintage!" observed
Shirley. But the jest was only in his words. He looked at her
seriously and then rapt in thought, closed his eyes the better to
aid his mental calculation. "He got off at the second floor--He
wore no overcoat--A black silk handkerchief--cobwebs--and that
garage on the other street, through the block! Miss Helene, you
are a splendid ally!"

"Won't you tell me what you mean about the garage? Who were
those men who attacked you? What happened since I deserted you?"

But Shirley provokingly shook his head, as he drew out his watch.

"It is half-past two. I must hurry down to East Twenty-fifth
Street and the East River, at the yacht club mooring, before
three. Tomorrow I will give you my version in some quiet
restaurant, far from the gadding crowd of the White Light
district."

He rose, drawing back his chair; they walked to the elevator
together. The clerk beckoned politely.

"A gent named Mr. Warren telephoned to ask if you were home yet,
Miss Marigold. I told him not yet. Was that wrong?"

"It was very kind of you. Thank you so much," and Helene's smile
was the cause of an uneasy flutter in the breast of the blase
clerk. "Good-night."

"That's a lucky guy, at that, Jimmie," confided the clerk to the
bell-boy. "She is some beauty show, ain't she? And she's on the
right track, too."

"Yep, but she's too polite to be a great actress or a star. Her
temper'ment ain't mean enough!" responded this Solomon in brass
buttons. "I hopes we gits invited to the wedding!"

Outside, Shirley enjoyed the stimulus of the bracing early
morning air. A new inspiration seemed to fire him, altogether
dissimilar to the glow which he was wont to feel when plunging
into a dangerous phase of a professional case. He slowly drew
from his pocket the typed note-paper which had nestled in such
enviable intimacy with that courageous heart. The faint
fragrance of her exquisite flesh clung to it still. He held it
to his lips and kissed it. Then he stopped, to turn about and
look upward at the tall hostelry behind him. High up below the
renaissance cornice he beheld the lights glow forth in the rooms
which he knew were Helene's.

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