The Wonderful Scheme of Mr. Christopher Thorne, page 42
“Is Mr. Winship back yet?” he asked.
“Yassuh. Ah call him, suh.”
Presently the melodious voice of the courteous Southern gentleman whom Erskine had visited yesterday in company with Cantrell was on the wire.
“This is Mr. Erskine, Mr. Winship—one of the two men who were over to see you yesterday. I tried to get you late yesterday afternoon and last evening, but you were out; and so I’ve stayed over in Memphis just to ask you a very simple but important question, if I may presume to do so.”
“By all means, Mistah Uhskine. What might yo’ question be, suh?”
“It is this, Mr. Winship: From your experience as a book collector, do you know of any leaflet—or pamphlet—or catalogue—published in America, which shows the location and last known ownership of the various rare volumes in this country and Europe?”
“Well, now, suh,” replied Winship, “Ah’m sorry to say that Ah know of no such thing now in recent yeahs. They was, howevah, back in nineteen twenty-seven a suhtain book dealah in New Yawk City who got out a weekly service sheet to book collectahs—which of co’se he had bound up each yeah into annual catalogues—showing the location and ownahship of all the antique books in Amerhicah only, wu’th ovah fifty dollahs. This man died, though, and while Ah remembah that his son took up the wuhk fo’ a few yeahs, the sheet finally lapsed.”
“I suppose, Mr. kinship, that even one of the older sets of bound-up weekly sheets might show correct information as to ownership of some of the books? All books have not changed hands in that time, I presume?”
“Indeed, no. Indeed, no. Many books are still in the hands of the original ownahs. But othahs have changed hands many, many times.”
“Do you happen to have one of those old leaflets—or pamphlets—or catalogues?”
“Ah am sorry to say Ah have not, Mistah Uhskine.”
“Well, then, Mr. Winship, could you tell me the name of this man who got it out?”
“His name, Mistah Uhskine, was Mr. Cassius P. Tho’ndyke and he lived somewhah in New Yawk City. Beyond that Ah cain’t say.”
“Thorndyke, you say, Mr. Winship?” And Erskine spelled it out as he presumed it should be spelled, getting the other’s assent. “But you state,” Erskine proceeded, “that a son went on with the work?”
“No, suh. Not exactly, suh, A stepson. A man with a diff’unt name. Ah cain’t recall it to save mah life. You see, Ah quit takin’ the suhvice aftah Tho’ndyke passed away.” He paused. “Ah tell you—Mist’ Tho’ndyke lived fo’ many yeahs wheahevah ’twas he lived. So he must have owned the house thah. Now if you could get access to some old New Yawk City directory of that yeah, find wheah Mist’ Cassius Tho’ndyke lived, and write to that street numbah, Ah have little doubt that you will locate his stepson. Who no doubt lives in the same house—o’ at least still owns it. Then Ah think you could suahly get hold of one of those old catalogues.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Winship. I appreciate very much your advice. I’ll follow that up.” And with a few more words, Erskine hung up.
He checked out right after breakfast, and boarding a train for Chicago rode for eleven long hours, looking unseeingly at the monotonous fields that fled past his car windows, over that distance which he might have traversed sleeping had he not remained over in Memphis for one night in order to put that last salient query to Mr. Robert K. Lee Winship; or which he might have traversed flying, in but a third of that time—had his own personal money reserves not done so much flying in the last twenty-four hours. And when at nine o’clock in the evening the train pulled into Chicago, he got off wearing the overcoat which only that morning had been a thing quite useless.
The district about the Polk Street Depot, as about most depots in America, was none too savory; so he entered a taxi-cab and drove straight to the Central Day and Night Bank on Jackson and LaSalle Streets, where he rented a safety deposit box and deposited within it, not fifty, but exactly forty-nine of the fifty precious bills which thus far had caused him a bit of uneasiness. Then, considerably relieved, he took a humble street car back to Little Italy and reached his room upstairs amidst the smelly regions and the howling children. But this time he was no longer a lumber jack, but a young man dressed in a neat blue serge suit.
It was nine o’clock in the morning, just as the big Washington Street doors of the Chicago Public Library opened, that Erskine entered the lake-front structure, almost its first visitor for the day. He did not go to the magazine room where, as he knew, current city and telephone directories were kept, but made his way to the general reading room where attendants were sleepily dusting off the shelves. He knew how badly tattered all directories became after their six months or their year, as the case might be, in the adjoining room. So he filled out a slip calling for a New York City general directory and telephone directory, both of 1927; and after securing the big, paper-bound volume and the even larger cloth-bound volume, retired at once to one of the polished tables over by the window. Sure enough, the page in the phone directory that would have contained the name and address of the deceased Cassius Thorndyke—it was a left-hand page and the name should have been close to its very bottom—was missing, as were scores of other pages; but he found the entry all right in the companion book, after which, recording the house number occupied at that time by Cassius Thorndyke was a matter of only a quarter-minute’s time. But he did not, strange to say, return the two books to the attendant. Instead, the books still open in front of him, he fell into a revery, and looking off unseeingly toward the tops of the stone pylons which stood in Grant Park across the way, he lost himself amidst a series of reflections of an altogether new nature from those which had beset him last night.
In fact, when he again came to earth sufficiently to return the books to the counter, instead of leaving the room he went back to his seat at the table and, withdrawing a pencil and several blank sheets of paper from his pocket, fell to covering one of the sheets with figures—figures that, with their equality signs, suggested equations of some sort. Which equations, moreover, held within themselves the algebraic signs x and y, as well as complicated arrangements of parentheses and brackets. Before he had gone very far, however, he rose and went over to the encyclopedia rack, where in the “Ok-Qe” volume of the Encyclopedia Americana, he proceeded to read for some time an article he found therein, studying attentively also a quite zig-zagging graph appearing in the article; after which he returned to his original table and again resumed his setting down of equations. Except that now he crossed out every y in those he had already set down, and substituted for it an actual decimal numeral, and from then on set no more y’s down—at least as y’s! Reaching the last available bit of white space on his first sheet of paper, he passed on to the next, and this in turn became filled with more of the cryptic x’s, brackets and parentheses from top to bottom. Thus sheet after sheet went the way of the first two, during which all his equations became finally massed into one; and a full hour had passed before he held up to his own inspection his final page, and studied the result he had achieved by all this mind-wearying labor in fractions, decimals, and x’s.
“Seven it is!” he said slowly to himself. “Seven—an even seven—it is. X equals 7. There is no other possible value for it. Seven—no more—no less.” He sat back in his chair, lost to the world. The looking up of the house number of the dead Cassius P. Thorndyke had indeed removed from the world, for the time being, a very active mind belonging to those living.
But at length Erskine gathered up his papers, his pencil and his hat, and went forth into the morning sunshine once more. Once outside, his first stop was a drugstore, where he stepped to the telephone directory and, searching among the B’s, copied down the address of the Beauty Bungalow Company, which, with several other companies dignified by such names as the Beauty Face Mask Company, and the Beauty Lawn Trimmer Company, made a most pulchritudinous group for this prosaic book. The address of the Beauty Bungalow Company was in the Chicago Title and Trust Company Building, and here Erskine made his way, watching the streets a little uneasily lest he be recognized. But he met no one whom he knew.
Passing a Postal-Union Telegraph office on the way, however, he entered it and sent a simple wire. It was addressed to “Occupant or Owner, Number 867 West 22nd Street, New York City,” and it read:
In re matter concerning old book, will you kindly wire, charges collect, to Suite 1113 Dearborn Building, Chicago, present address if you know it of any relative of Cassius P. Thorndyke residing your address in 1927.
GREAT LAKES DETECTIVE AGENCY.
“Please have the answer on this relayed over to your office on South Dearborn near Harrison,” he instructed, “and have it delivered to our offices.” “Our offices,” sounded very impressive, and the clerk entered meticulously the room number and building of the address. Whereupon Erskine went on his way to the Title and Trust Company Building, the matter of Mr. Cassius P. Thorndyke now entirely gone from his mind, which was filled with things of considerable more importance.
Entering the offices of the Beauty Bungalow Company on the fourth floor, he found the usual typical real estate office with several desks occupied by middle-aged men, and girls clicking away on typewriters. He stepped to the desk nearest the rail, where sat a man with thin hair.
“Who is the general manager here?” Erskine asked.
“I am,” said he of the thin hair. “Matson is my name.”
“Can you give me a few minutes?”
Matson swung aside the wooden gate in a low railing separating the office proper from the space reserved for callers. “Come in. What can I do for you?” He indicated a chair close by.
“Erskine is my name,” said the young man briefly, dropping into the proffered seat. “Have you got a salaried job here for a bungalow salesman?”
Matson looked puzzled. “Ever sold any real estate?”
“No,” admitted Erskine with a grin, “but I might try.”
Matson shook his head. “Well, I’m sorry, but we seldom give salaries except to tried men. Perhaps you can sell bungalows—but you’d have to have better qualifications than you have.”
“What is your proposition to the customer, and what is your proposition to salesmen on commission?” asked Erskine.
“The proposition to the customer is a $4,900 bungalow of five rooms, made of brick—here are the specifications on this leaflet—with a fifty-foot lot paid for, in Terrace Heights, out north; Winfield Center, south; or Tarkington Ends, west, for $200 cash down, and $35 a month and interest after that.”
“And the commission to the salesman?”
“The salesman gets one half of the first $200 paid, and one and one half per cent of every monthly payment made thereafter.”
“All right. Will you take me on here as a salesman, I to furnish my own prospects, and with no salary—commissions only?”
Matson looked him over. “Well, that’s a fair deal, it seems to me. Think you can sell any?”
“I don’t know,” said Erskine. “I made you a proposition which can cost you nothing.”
“All right, then,” said the real estate man. “You’re on. Now, what’s the name and address?”
“Name is Phillip Erskine, address for the time being, 1003 Sedgewick Street, but will be changed shortly.”
Matson noted the data on a scrap of paper and then opened several drawers in his desk and from each took a leaflet or blank or booklet of some sort. “Here is about everything you will need to sell bungalows,” he affirmed. “Here is the principal thing—this booklet with these beautiful half tones in colors, showing the various styles of bungalows which we put up for the customer. The other leaflets are self-explanatory. And here are twelve of the blank forms for the customer to fill out after he has been sold. Please do not be insulted because of the heavy printed line instructing customers to pay no money to salesman. And as for those twelve forms—well, if you ever use up that many—well, come in and see us again. We may have a better proposition.” He smiled in a friendly manner.
Erskine rose. “Thank you.” He proceeded out of the gate in the railing. Then he turned back. “By the way, Mr. Matson, will you just put my name down on your force in case anybody inquires about me?”
Matson called to a nearby stenographer. “Miss Ames, come here please. I want you to enter up a new name on our list of salesmen.”
Erskine had not gone far from the Title and Trust Company Building before he passed a man whose shop was on the curbing and whose stock in trade was a tiny hand printing-press, a font of type and some blank cards, and whose sign proclaimed that he printed business cards while the customer waited. Whereupon Erskine stopped and, writing on the form given him by the press-owner, provided the following copy:
Phillip R. Erskine
Representing
THE BEAUTY BUNGALOW COMPANY
Chicago Title and Trust Co. Bldg.
He remained only long enough to see the other commence to throw type into his form, and then went on to the next drugstore where once more he closeted himself in a telephone booth. The number which he looked up and which he called was no other than the main offices of the Chicago Police Department in the City Hall. A switchboard girl answered him. He asked his question.
“Will you put me in touch with somebody who provides policemen for private escort in Chicago?”
A wait and then a man’s voice answered.
“I’m asking,” Erskine inquired, “whether you know of any policeman on furlough or with today off whom I can hire to act as a police guard for the afternoon, and pay him privately? I want somebody on the River Police Division.”
“Well, I’ll tell you—there are plenty of available men—does he have to be on the River Division?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause while the man at the other end evidently consulted a roster or card index. Then his voice returned to the receiver at Erskine’s ear. “Call up Richard T. Cassidy, 2446 West North Avenue, Humboldt 6992. He’s on the River Division. If you don’t get what you want, call back here again.”
Whereupon Erskine called up Humboldt 6992 and got no other than the said Richard T. Cassidy himself. His proposition was short, concise and to the point. Would Mr. Cassidy, for the consideration of $25 cash for the afternoon, consent to act as guard to some money being conveyed across the city in company with a selected party consisting of three men, one himself, one a lawyer and one an auditor. Mr. Cassidy proved only too willing, and agreed almost immediately to meet Mr. Erskine at two o’clock in the offices of Garroway, Riley, Peterson and Barr, auditors and public accountants, in the First National Bank Building.
This done, Erskine called up the offices of Garroway, Riley, Peterson and Barr. “I want to get in touch with Mr. Garroway immediately,” he told the girl who answered the phone. “If he’s out on a case, I would like to have his number.” But Mr. Garroway proved to be right in the offices and was on the wire within three minutes.
“Mr. Garroway, this is Phillip Erskine, whose accounts with Mr. Christopher Thorne were not quite right when you last examined them about sixteen days back. Could you have your data, figures and original report handy today at two o’clock, and proceed with me to Mr. Thorne’s? I am about to square up my accounts with him.”
There was an audible gasp from Garroway. Then he spoke.
“I—I was going out on an auditing case this afternoon.”
“What will be your fee to give me your afternoon?” asked Erskine.
“Well—twenty-five dollars.”
“O. K.,” was Erskine’s succinct reply. “I’ll pay you that for your time.” He paused. “Now, Mr. Garroway, since you’re working for me, so to speak, this afternoon, could I trouble you to call up Mr. Christopher Thorne and arrange for an appointment at his office—no—there are too many people in earshot at his office—say his house at three o’clock? An appointment for yourself, a lawyer, and two other parties, one of whom is myself, of course? And please say nothing about the reason for this meeting other than that it vitally concerns the Erskine case. Can I count on you on that, Mr. Garroway?”
