The Wonderful Scheme of Mr. Christopher Thorne, page 35
With these essential steps taken care of, he proceeded to smear on the clown-white over the unmarked parts of his face and neck—and more. And, of course, on his eyelids. Then he put on his ruff, and then his tight clown cap, checking up by a careful examination to see that all of his red hair was covered up, and, as in Ebenezer’s case, touching up once more with the clown-white the ears that protruded from slits in its side. Now he put on his semi-molded black mask, covering up thereby a set of cheekbones which were not prominent, and a nose bridge which was by no means flat, and tied the mask in back, surveying himself then gravely and studiedly in the mirror. In a very brief space of time would come the really crucial test of his make-up! Yet he had to admit that, so far as external appearance went, he was an exact duplicate of the man with whom he had left the house of Madame Tranchepain a short while back.
He lost no time in getting downstairs and on the street again. There were plenty of other maskers; so that going about the streets masked and costumed in no wise singled any individual out. Practically all of the maskers were flooding toward Canal Street, and more than one talked French.
When Cantrell reached Burgundy and Conti Streets—for he was heading at a rapid pace back to Madame Tranchepain’s again—he turned into a saloon that stood directly on the corner. An old man with rather dilapidated garments and an extraordinarily red and bulbous nose, but whose accents were those of the Southern gentleman long since fallen by the wayside, accosted him.
“A vehy striking get-up, suh! Vehy striking. Ah wondah, suh, if you could see your way cleah, suh, to—uh—buying a little drink in honoh of King Rex.”
Cantrell paused an instant, looking the other over; then he spoke.
“Well, Cunnel, I was going to ask the bartender to help me out on a little job—but you’ll do. Now you do a little piece of work for me—dignified work—and I’ll set you up to nothing less than a shot of Old Taylor—seventeen years, by God, in wood!”
“Ah, suh,” said the old man of the red nose. “Name yo’ favor, suh. Ah’m at yo’ call.”
Cantrell led the tattered old man over to a telephone booth in the corner of the saloon. “Now what I want you to do, Cunnel, after I dial a certain number in this booth, is to ask for Madame. Yes, just Madame. And wait till you get her personally. When you get her, tell her to convey to Mr. Sitting-Down-Bear—oh, call it just Mr. Bear—yes—Mr. Bear—B-e-a-r—that the gentleman—yourself—he has been waiting for, will be at the house just as soon as he can get through the crowds downtown. She will tell you that Mr. Sitting-Down-Bear has gone out to join the maskers, but you tell her that Mr. Bear—yes—B-e-a-r—is to stop off at the Monteleone Hotel to see a friend this morning, and that you have already left word with this friend that you are on your way, and that Mr. Bear, therefore, will no doubt be back.”
It was a long and tortuous affair to get the thing straight in the old man’s mind, but at last, reinforced no doubt by the thirst which knoweth no control, he appeared letter perfect in his lesson, and took the receiver with extreme dignity after Cantrell had dialed it for BIEN 5053—the number he had covertly plucked the day before from the instrument outside of Madame Tranchepain’s under-stairway door; whereupon Cantrell stepped nimbly aside. And waited in the booth, at the old derelict’s elbow, outwardly calm, but inwardly tense.
A clicking and the old man spoke. “Is this Madame? Thankyuh kindly—but Ah wish to speak to Madame huhse’f.” A pause. “Madame? Ah, yes! Will yo’all kindly tell Mr. Bah—yes, Madame, B-e-a-ah—Bah—Mist’ Sittin’-Down-Bah is th’ complete name—that the gen’leman he has been expectin’ will be down to see him today—just as soon as Ah can get th’u the crowds. An’—oh, done gone down with the maskahs, you say? Yes, but he is to stop off at the Monteleone to see a mutual friend this mohnin’, and Ah have just called up that friend to say that Ah’m in town, so Mist’ Bah will undoubtedly come right back. Yes. Yes. Ah’ll come on anyway.”
When the old man had finished, he hung up. “Did Ah do all right, suh?”
Cantrell took him over to the bar. He flung down fifty cents. “Give this old gentleman two drinks of bottled-in-bond,” he told the bartender. And with his order he winked a wink which must have been nothing more than the temporary occlusion, by a white eyelid, of a brown eye peering from a hole in a black mask—and which might have meant that the old gentleman in question, after the years of drinking which had created that bulbous nose, no longer knew the difference between aged-in-the-wood stuff—and alcohol and water containing a dash of caramel. After which wink, Cantrell went out the side door of the saloon, and looked up and down the street, troubledly, either way. For he needed, now, a woman’s brisk voice—and this was indeed the district in which one was certain—to find a woman!
He spotted her instanter. Powdered and painted, flouncing arrogantly up the opposite side of the street. He crossed diagonally over.
“Hello, Clown from the No’th,” she said, perspicaciously. “How’s about a li’1 lovin’ and a li’1 drink?”
“Hello yourself, Mae West,” Cantrell said. “And what does all that cost?”
“A dollah buys a lot, baby,” she said.
“I’ll say!” he replied. “Come over by the wall, here.”
She did so.
“Listen, Mae West,” he began, “I ain’t interested in lovin’. Not right now, see? But I wanta play a helluva joke on a friend of mine. Just a telephone call, see? And I’ll pay you the buck you ask—if you’ll make the call for me.”
“Add a drink of Scotch,” she said, “and Ah’ll call up Franklin D. hisself. At Wash’n’ton.”
“Oh, no you won’t,” he replied. “Not on my coin! But here’s the lay.” He outlined it very, very carefully. She nodded. He saw, under the rouge on her cheekbones, that she probably was downright hungry. And very intelligent, too.
“Oke,” she said. “Ah got it. Whah’ll we phone?”
He led the way to another saloon on the opposite corner. They entered. He nodded toward the bartender as they went into the booth, “Two Scotches—up,” he told the latter. “Till we make a call.” Again Cantrell dialed the Hôtellerie de Madame Tranchepain, covering the dial with his hand. Then, as before, he stood aside, as she took the receiver from his fingers.
“Ah’d lak to speak,” she said, “to Mr. Bah’s landlady.” A pause. “Oh—speakin’? Well, this is Miss Cantuhbu’hy, Doct’ Collins’ office assistant—” There were five Doctor Collinses listed in the New Orleans phone directory, Cantrell had found, and this name precluded the slightest possibility of any “call-back.” “Would you, ma’m, give a most impohtant message to Mr. Bah—when he comes in?” A pause. “Yes, ma’m. He’s on his way home now. Mr. Bah, ma’m, was hit in the th’oat with a plank, by a gang of rowdies. He come up heah fo’ treatment. Yes, ma’m. Fo’ he could hahdly speak. No, ma’m. He’ll be all right. But he done got away ’fo’ Doctor Collins could give him some vehy impohtant instructions. So Ah’m callin’ up the telephone numbah he done writ on his history cahd. Yes, ma’m. Will you please tell him, ma’m, that fo’ twenty-fo’ houhs he is undah no circumstances to use his voice—no, no speakin’, ma’m—if he has any business to transact, he’s to do it all in writin’—yes, ma’m, it’s his vocalion cho’ds what is afflicted—and he’s to gahgle, ma’m, ev’vy houh with the medicine the doctoh gave him. Not evah two houhs, ma’m, lak it says on the bottle. Evah houh, ma’m. Thanks so much, ma’m—he done got out ’fo’ we wahned him ’bout not usin’ his vocalion cho’ds. You’ll tell him? Yessum—no talkin’, singin’, o’ nothin’ lak that fo’ twenty-foh houhs. Thank yo’ kindly, ma’m. He’ll be along presently.”
She hung up. “Madame! Christ! Plenty of them Ah’ve wuhked undah in mah day. Ovah neah the old St. Louis Cemetahy. Well, when do we poah?”
“The bartender’s already poured two Scotches, Sweet—one for me—and one for you. Thanks for helping me out—with the joke. And you drink both the drinks.” Cantrell handed the woman her dollar. She clutched it desperately. He walked over to the bar with her. The two Scotches were waiting. “Fifty?” The bartender nodded. Cantrell flung the change down. “So long, baby.”
And he was out in the free air again.
He had used up considerable precious time. Now he set out, in earnest, and at a pace which was nearly a run sped toward the Hôtellerie de Madame Tranchepain.
Reaching it, he paused on the doorstep just long enough to get his breath, and then proceeded to open the front door with the key which he had not lost at all, much less dropped in the Bayou St. John. He stepped in the hallway. He put a hand to his throat—now would come the test of his plan—and a second later the little old French woman came out of her subterranean cave at the sound of the front door.
“Oh—M’sieur Seeting-Down-Bear,” she said excitedly, peering at him myopically through her silver-rimmed spectacles. “Moch—manee telyphone calls! Oui. And no—don’ spik. No! Doctor, ’e ’ave say—’ees girl she phone an’ say—you no und’ no caircumstances, use voice—don’ spik—don’ seeng—jus’ write ever’theeng, see? An’ gargle ever’ hour—not ever’ two hours. No!”
He nodded vociferously, hand still on throat. And she pressed on.
“And gentleman what you ’ave wait fo’ so long ’ave also call’—no, on phone—an’ ’e say ’e weel be right ovair.”
He ran his hand around his throat helplessly and let out a croak. Just a croak! She raised her hand.
“No—don’ talk. Doctor ’e say no—don’ use chords.” She shook her head deprecatingly. “Oh—I am so sorree. Ze rowdies and roughs zey ’ave spoil New Orleans Mardi Gras. Eet ees not as used once to be. But ze zroat weel get well. I wance ’ave same t’eeng. Yes.” Cantrell smiled what seemed to his own facial muscles like a most ghastly smile—but reached up with an easy motion and took down from the keyrack, not the shingle laden key which had been that of his own room on the second gallery, but the one instead which was that of Ebenezer Sitting-Down-Bear’s. He glanced at the clock on the mantel above the divan, and then removing his hand from his throat, essayed a bored yawn as he glanced significantly at the vault. He dropped down on the edge of a chair where he sat swinging the key monotonously in a wide circle by its attached shingle, and taking the part of a man who was waiting casually—though a bit dolorously—for a certain moment to arrive. And during the ensuing few seconds, his heart literally stood still within him. He was almost on the verge of success with his venture—and the last essential step was yet to be accomplished. The key in his hand swung ceaselessly, ceaselessly, monotonously on.
And then the clock on the mantel struck twelve times, melodiously.
But little did Cantrell realize, as he sat there, that his heart need not threaten to stop within him. For Madame Tranchepain, who for eight successive days had each day at the hour of twelve taken that satchel out of the safe for her guest, and who had seen that same guest invariably sit on that same chair in the minutes preceding twelve o’clock, waiting for the combination to be released by the time-lock; who had seen him wait the past eight days for a business caller who had not yet come, and who had just been rung up herself by that long expected business caller, and who had seen re-enter her home the identical clown that she had seen leave it an hour ago, was the victim of a perfect meshing of event and appearance. To step to the vault, to stoop down, to wait a moment or so until a loud clicking within announced that the time-lock had operated, to spin the dials to their proper positions, to swing open the doors, all was to her the very essence of naturalness, a habit almost, a mere repetition of what she had done now for eight successive days—and she literally walked into the trap without even blinking her kindly brown—and, it is to be admitted, slightly myopic—eyes. Cantrell still sat idly swinging his key, at times feeling his throat very gingerly; and a moment later, the old Frenchwoman had lifted from the interior of the giant vault the green alligator bag. He took it from her with a slight bow, and walking slowly up the stairs past each of the plaster saints, was soon out on the gallery on his way to Ebenezer Sitting-Down-Bear’s room.
Once inside the room, the door closed, he heaved a fearful sigh of relief. But there was no time to waste, he told himself tensely. Little did he know, however, that that simple honest soul back downstairs had not the tiniest tittle of any suspicion aroused within her; but Cantrell, having won out thus far, did not intend to lose all now. Like a flash he crossed the room and flung open a small upper casement which looked out upon the graveled roof of an adjoining low building. He had a chair over to it in a trice, and within sixty seconds from the time he had entered the room, he was clambering out of it and over on to the adjoining roof. He crossed this roof rapidly and, gazing down, found a small alleyway, into which he promptly dropped. A moment later he was out on Bourbon Street. He proceeded at a rapid rate, a half-stride—a half-run. His heart beat wildly within him. He had won! In his hands was a fortune in either jewels or money, and he had gained it by a brilliant plan of his own conception and execution. Within ten minutes, he was going unobserved up the stairs of the dingy rooming house on North Rampart Street, two steps at a time, and still a moment later he had locked himself in his room.
He knew that a hue and a cry would eventually be raised for the spurious clown in the black-starred suit when Ebenezer Sitting-Down-Bear should later discover that he had been robbed, but he knew that this would be hours yet—perhaps not before four o’clock that day. Yet, nevertheless, the first thing he did was to wash off the clown-white and grease-paint with considerable trouble, and doff every vestige of his costume, which he stowed away under the furthest corner of the bed. Then, prepared for immediate flight, he fell to examining the precious bag which he had obtained.
It was of very stout leather and locked, tightly locked; on top of this, Ebenezer Sitting-Down-Bear had the key. But he, Cantrell, had a key of a different nature, consisting of the cold chisel and hammer he had bought and placed in his room three days before. Laying the satchel down on its side on the floor, he inserted the point of the chisel in its keyhole and gave several powerful smashing blows with the hammer. Of a sudden something clicked; and, trying the slipbolt of the lock, he found that he had broken the mechanism within, and that the thing would now operate without the key.
He opened it up with eyes popping from his head, with greed, and heart beating wildly. A moment later a look of glum bewilderment had passed over his face. There was nothing in it but an old brown leather book that looked as though it might be of considerable age. He took it out scowling, and, peering within, found that there was nothing else in the valise, not even a scrap of paper. Sourly, morosely, he gazed at the title of the book: “The Meditations of St. Anselm.”
“A book!” he muttered disgustedly. “A goddam measly book! A dirty old hand-me-down book! And I was expecting—a fortune.” He was lost in his moody, bitter reflections for a moment. “But maybe it’s worth something at that. I wonder? Did I cop a fortune—or did I cop a lemon? There’s the big question!”
CHAPTER XXVI
The Unsent Messages
Mr. Christopher Thorne sat at his antique desk in the library of his home in a highly satisfied frame of mind. It was a few minutes after one o’clock, and his post-luncheon cigar seemed particularly mellow this day.
Some eight or nine feet from him, shoved carefully out of the way against one damask-papered wall, stood his tripod stand carrying his precious inlaid mother-of-pearl chessboard, with its brilliant red and black handcarved ebony chessmen still laid out upon it for the solution of the most recent of the fascinating chess problems on which he was wont to amuse himself sometimes of an evening. While some six blocks away, two unprepossessing assistants—themselves but chessmen in a sense!—carried on the work of “Christopher Thorne, Loans and Second Mortgages”: two middle-aged men, both married, one toothless, one wearing spectacles a third of an inch thick, and each chosen solely because it was obvious that he could never exert any sentimental influence over Alicia, even though she should ever by chance enter the office again. And thus, thanks at least to the two living chessmen, Christopher Thorne was able to take his leisure in his swivel chair within his own home, quite content with things as they were.
On the narrow ledge of the antique desk reposed a blue telegram which occasionally he smoothed out and read, and the message in which aroused at each reading as much gratification as it did when it had first arrived on Wednesday afternoon, at four o’clock, seven days before. For it was from New Orleans—from a detective agency—though not, to be sure, from a member of that huge national chain of agencies with which Christopher Thorne invariably dealt in tracing down those occasional larger debtors who “jumped” unpaid balances on their loans, for it was signed “The Gulf Coast Agency,” and was, of course, no other than the affiliate of the small Mid-West agency in Chicago which he had rung on that memorable day, Monday, February 8th. Its voluminous contents, sent, as shown by the classification letters in its date line, at special reduced detective-agency rates, ran:
