Initials Only

by Anna Katharine Green

  XVII. IN WHICH A BOOK PLAYS A LEADING PART

  When Mr. Brotherson came in that night, he noticed that the door ofthe room adjoining his own stood open. He did not hesitate. Makingimmediately for it, he took a glance inside, then spoke up with aringing intonation:

  "Halloo! coming to live in this hole?"

  The occupant a young man, evidently a workman and somewhat sickly if onecould judge from his complexion--turned around from some tinkering hewas engaged in and met the intruder fairly, face to face. If his jawfell, it seemed to be from admiration. No other emotion would have solighted his eye as he took in the others proportions and commandingfeatures. No dress--Brotherson was never seen in any other than thehomeliest garb in these days--could make him look common or akin tohis surroundings. Whether seen near or far, his presence always causedsurprise, and surprise was what the young man showed, as he answeredbriskly:

  "Yes, this is to be my castle. Are you the owner of the buildings? Ifso--"

  "I am not the owner. I live next door. Haven't I seen you before, youngman?"

  Never was there a more penetrating eye than Orlando Brotherson's. As heasked this question it took some effort on the part of the other to holdhis own and laugh with perfect naturalness as he replied:

  "If you ever go up Henry Street it's likely enough that you've seen menot once, but many times. I'm the fellow who works at the bench next thewindow in Schuper's repairing shop. Everybody knows me."

  Audacity often carries the day when subtler means would fail. Brothersonstared at the youth, then ventured another question:

  "A carpenter, eh?"

  "Yes, and I'm an A1 man at my job. Excuse my brag. It's my one card ofintroduction."

  "I've seen you. I've seen you somewhere else than in Schuper's shop. Doyou remember me?"

  "No, sir; I'm sorry to be imperlite but I don't remember you at all.Won't you sit down? It's not very cheerful, but I'm so glad to get outof the room I was in last night that this looks all right to me. Backthere, other building," he whispered. "I didn't know, and took the roomwhich had a window in it; but--" The stop was significant; so was hissmile which had a touch of sickliness in it, as well as humour.

  But Brotherson was not to be caught.

  "You slept in the building last night? In the other half, I mean?"

  "Yes, I--slept."

  The strong lip of the other man curled disdainfully.

  "I saw you," said he. "You were standing in the window overlooking thecourt. You were not sleeping then. I suppose you know that a woman diedin that room?"

  "Yes; they told me so this morning."

  "Was that the first you'd heard of it?"

  "Sure!" The word almost jumped at the questioner. "Do you suppose I'dhave taken the room if--"

  But here the intruder, with a disdainful grunt, turned and went out,disgust in every feature,--plain, unmistakable, downright disgust, andnothing more!

  This was what gave Sweetwater his second bad night; this and a certaindiscovery he made. He had counted on hearing what went on in theneighbouring room through the partition running back of his own closet.But he could hear nothing, unless it was the shutting down of a window,a loud sneeze, or the rattling of coals as they were put on the fire.And these possessed no significance. What he wanted was to catch thesecret sigh, the muttered word, the involuntary movement. He was too farremoved from this man still.

  How should he manage to get nearer him--at the door of his mind--ofhis heart? Sweetwater stared all night from his miserable cot into thedarkness of that separating closet, and with no result. His task lookedhopeless; no wonder that he could get no rest.

  Next morning he felt ill, but he rose all the same, and tried to gethis own breakfast. He had but partially succeeded and was sitting onthe edge of his bed in wretched discomfort, when the very man he wasthinking of appeared at his door.

  "I've come to see how you are," said Brotherson. "I noticed that you didnot look well last night. Won't you come in and share my pot of coffee?"

  "I--I can't eat," mumbled Sweetwater, for once in his life throwncompletely off his balance. "You're very kind, but I'll manage allright. I'd rather. I'm not quite dressed, you see, and I must get tothe shop." Then he thought--"What an opportunity I'm losing. Have Iany right to turn tail because he plays his game from the outset withtrumps? No, I've a small trump somewhere about me to lay on this trick.It isn't an ace, but it'll show I'm not chicane." And smiling, thoughnot with his usual cheerfulness, Sweetwater added, "Is the coffee allmade? I might take a drop of that. But you mustn't ask me to eat--I justcouldn't."

  "Yes, the coffee is made and it isn't bad either. You'd better put onyour coat; the hall's draughty." And waiting till Sweetwater did so, heled the way back to his own room. Brotherson's manner expressed perfectease, Sweetwater's not. He knew himself changed in looks, in bearing, infeeling, even; but was he changed enough to deceive this man on the veryspot where they had confronted each other a few days before in a keenmoral struggle? The looking-glass he passed on his way to the tablewhere the simple breakfast was spread out, showed him a figure so unlikethe alert, business-like chap he had been that night, that he felthis old assurance revive in time to ease a situation which had nocounterpart in his experience.

  "I'm going out myself to-day, so we'll have to hurry a bit," wasBrotherson's first remark as they seated themselves at table. "Do youlike your coffee plain or with milk in it?"

  "Plain. Gosh! what pictures! Where do you get 'em? You must have a lotof coin." Sweetwater was staring at the row of photographs, mostly ofa very high order, tacked along the wall separating the two rooms. Theywere unframed, but they were mostly copies of great pictures, and theeffect was rather imposing in contrast to the shabby furniture and theotherwise homely fittings.

  "Yes, I've enough for that kind of thing," was his host's reply. But thetone was reserved, and Sweetwater did not presume again along this line.Instead, he looked well at the books piled upon the shelves under thesephotographs, and wondered aloud at their number and at the man who couldwaste such a lot of time in reading them. But he made no more directremarks. Was he cowed by the penetrating eye he encountered whenever heyielded to the fascination exerted by Mr. Brotherson's personality andlooked his way? He hated to think so, yet something held him in checkand made him listen, open-mouthed, when the other chose to speak.

  Yet there was one cheerful moment. It was when he noticed the carelessway in which those books were arranged upon their shelves. An idea hadcome to him. He hid his relief in his cup, as he drained the last dropsof the coffee which really tasted better than he had expected.

  When he returned from work that afternoon it was with an auger under hiscoat and a conviction which led him to empty out the contents of a smallphial which he took down from a shelf. He had told Mr. Gryce that he waseager for the business because of its difficulties, but that was whenhe was feeling fine and up to any game which might come his way. Now hefelt weak and easily discouraged. This would not do. He must regain hishealth at all hazards, so he poured out the mixture which had given himsuch a sickly air. This done and a rude supper eaten, he took up hisauger. He had heard Mr. Brotherson's step go by. But next minute helaid it down again in great haste and flung a newspaper over it. Mr.Brotherson was coming back, had stopped at his door, had knocked andmust be let in.

  "You're better this evening," he heard in those kindly tones which soconfused and irritated him.

  "Yes," was the surly admission. "But it's stifling here. If I have tolive long in this hole I'll dry up from want of air. It's near theshop or I wouldn't stay out the week." Twice this day he had seenBrotherson's tall figure stop before the window of this shop and look inat him at his bench. But he said nothing about that.

  "Yes," agreed the other, "it's no way to live. But you're alone.Upstairs there's a whole family huddled into a room just like this. Twoof the kids sleep in the closet. It's things like that which have mademe the friend of the poor, and the mortal enemy of men and women whospread thems
elves over a dozen big rooms and think themselves ill-usedif the gas burns poorly or a fireplace smokes. I'm off for the evening;anything I can do for you?"

  "Show me how I can win my way into such rooms as you've just talkedabout. Nothing less will make me look up. I'd like to sleep in oneto-night. In the best bedroom, sir. I'm ambitious; I am."

  A poor joke, though they both laughed. There Mr. Brotherson passedon, and Sweetwater listened till he was sure that his too attentiveneighbour had really gone down the three flights between him and thestreet. Then he took up his auger again and shut himself up in hiscloset.

  There was nothing peculiar about this closet. It was just an ordinaryone with drawers and shelves on one side, and an open space on the otherfor the hanging up of clothes. Very few clothes hung there at present;but it was in this portion of the closet that he stopped and began totry the wall of Brotherson's room, with the butt end of the tool hecarried.

  The sound seemed to satisfy him, for very soon he was boring a hole ata point exactly level with his ear; but not without frequent pausesand much attention given to the possible return of those departedfoot-steps. He remembered that Mr. Brotherson had a way of coming backon unexpected errands after giving out his intention of being absent forhours.

  Sweetwater did not want to be caught in any such trap as that; so hecarefully followed every sound that reached him from the noisy halls.But he did not forsake his post; he did not have to. Mr. Brotherson hadbeen sincere in his good-bye, and the auger finished its job and waswithdrawn without any interruption from the man whose premises had beenthus audaciously invaded.

  "Neat as well as useful," was the gay comment with which Sweetwatersurveyed his work, then laid his ear to the hole. Whereas previously hecould barely hear the rattling of coals from the coal-scuttle, he wasnow able to catch the sound of an ash falling into the ash-pit.

  His next move was to test the depth of the partition by inserting hisfinger in the hole he had made. He found it stopped by some obstaclebefore it had reached half its length, and anxious to satisfy himselfof the nature of this obstacle, he gently moved the tip of his finger toand fro over what was certainly the edge of a book.

  This proved that his calculations had been correct and that the openingso accessible on his side, was completely veiled on the other by thebooks he had seen packed on the shelves. As these shelves had no otherbacking than the wall, he had feared striking a spot not covered by abook. But he had not undertaken so risky a piece of work without firstnoting how nearly the tops of the books approached the line of the shelfabove them, and the consequent unlikelihood of his striking the spacebetween, at the height he planned the hole. He had even been careful toassure himself that all the volumes at this exact point stood far enoughforward to afford room behind them for the chips and plaster hemust necessarily push through with his auger, and also--importantconsideration--for the free passage of the sounds by which he hoped toprofit.

  As he listened for a moment longer, and then stooped to gather up thedebris which had fallen on his own side of the partition, he muttered,in his old self-congratulatory way:

  "If the devil don't interfere in some way best known to himself,this opportunity I have made for myself of listening to this arrogantfellow's very heartbeats should give me some clew to his secret. As soonas I can stand it, I'll spend my evenings at this hole."

  But it was days before he could trust himself so far. Meanwhile theiracquaintance ripened, though with no very satisfactory results. Thedetective found himself led into telling stories of his early home-lifeto keep pace with the man who always had something of moment and solidinterest to impart. This was undesirable, for instead of calling outa corresponding confidence from Brotherson, it only seemed to make hisconversation more coldly impersonal.

  In consequence, Sweetwater suddenly found himself quite well and oneevening, when he was sure that his neighbour was at home, he slid softlyinto his closet and laid his ear to the opening he had made there. Theresult was unexpected. Mr. Brotherson was pacing the floor, and talkingsoftly to himself.

  At first, the cadence and full music of the tones conveyed nothing toour far from literary detective. The victim of his secret machinationswas expressing himself in words, words;--that was the point whichcounted with him. But as he listened longer and gradually took inthe sense of these words, his heart went down lower and lower till itreached his boots. His inscrutable and ever disappointing neighbour wasnot indulging in self-communings of any kind. He was reciting poetry,and what was worse, poetry which he only half remembered and was tryingto recall;--an incredible occupation for a man weighted with a criminalsecret.

  Sweetwater was disgusted, and was withdrawing in high indignation fromhis vantage-point when something occurred of a startling enough natureto hold him where he was in almost breathless expectation.

  The hole which in the darkness of the closet was always faintly visible,even when the light was not very strong in the adjoining room, hadsuddenly become a bright and shining loop-hole, with a suggestionof movement in the space beyond. The book which had hid this holeon Brotherson's side had been taken down--the one book in all thosehundreds whose removal threatened Sweetwater's schemes, if not himself.

  For an instant the thwarted detective listened for the angry shoutor the smothered oath which would naturally follow the discovery byBrotherson of this attempted interference with his privacy.

  But all was still on his side of the wall. A rustling of leaves couldbe heard, as the inventor searched for the poem he wanted, but nothingmore. In withdrawing the book, he had failed to notice the hole in theplaster back of it. But he could hardly fail to see it when he came toput the book back. Meantime, suspense for Sweetwater.

  It was several minutes before he heard Mr. Brotherson's voice again,then it was in triumphant repetition of the lines which had escaped hismemory. They were great words surely and Sweetwater never forgot them,but the impression which they made upon his mind, an impression soforcible that he was able to repeat them, months afterward to Mr. Gryce,did not prevent him from noting the tone in which they were uttered, northe thud which followed as the book was thrown down upon the floor.

  "Fool!" The word rang out in bitter irony from his irate neighbour'slips. "What does he know of woman! Woman! Let him court a rich one andsee--but that's all over and done with. No more harping on that string,and no more reading of poetry. I'll never,--" The rest was lost in histhroat and was quite unintelligible to the anxious listener.

  Self-revealing words, which an instant before would have arousedSweetwater's deepest interest! But they had suddenly lost all forcefor the unhappy listener. The sight of that hole still shining brightlybefore his eyes had distracted his thoughts and roused his liveliestapprehensions. If that book should be allowed to lie where it hadfallen, then he was in for a period of uncertainty he shrank fromcontemplating. Any moment his neighbour might look up and catch sight ofthis hole bored in the backing of the shelves before him. Could the manwho had been guilty of submitting him to this outrage stand the strainof waiting indefinitely for the moment of discovery? He doubted it, ifthe suspense lasted too long.

  Shifting his position, he placed his eye where his ear had been. Hecould see very little. The space before him, limited as it was to thewidth of the one volume withdrawn, precluded his seeing aught but whatlay directly before him. Happily, it was in this narrow line of visionthat Mr. Brotherson stood. He had resumed work upon his model and wasso placed that while his face was not visible, his hands were, andas Sweetwater watched these hands and noticed the delicacy of theirmanipulation, he was enough of a workman to realise that work so finecalled for an undivided attention. He need not fear the gaze shifting,while those hands moved as warily as they did now.

  Relieved for the moment, he left his post and, sitting down on the edgeof his cot, gave himself up to thought.

  He deserved this mischance. Had he profited properly by Mr. Gryce'steachings, he would not have been caught like this; he would havecalculated not upon t
he nine hundred and ninety-nine chances of thatbook being left alone, but upon the thousandth one of its being the veryone to be singled out and removed. Had he done this,--had he taken painsto so roughen and discolour the opening he had made, that it would looklike an ancient rat hole instead of showing a clean bore, he would havesome answer to give Brotherson when he came to question him in regard toit. But now the whole thing seemed up! He had shown himself a fooland by good rights ought to acknowledge his defeat and return toHeadquarters. But he had too much spirit for that. He would rather--yes,he would rather face the pistol he had once seen in his enemy's hand.Yet it was hard to sit here waiting, waiting--Suddenly he startedupright. He would go meet his fate--be present in the room itself whenthe discovery was made which threatened to upset all his plans. He wasnot ashamed of his calling, and Brotherson would think twice beforeattacking him when once convinced that he had the Department behind him.

  "Excuse me, comrade," were the words with which he endeavoured toaccount for his presence at Brotherson's door. "My lamp smells so, andI've made such a mess of my work to-day that I've just stepped in for achat. If I'm not wanted, say so. I don't want to bother you, but you dolook pleasant here. I hope the thing I'm turning over in my head--everyman has his schemes for making a fortune, you know--will be a successsome day. I'd like a big room like this, and a lot of books, and--andpictures."

  Craning his neck, he took a peep at the shelves, with an air of openadmiration which effectually concealed his real purpose. What hewanted was to catch one glimpse of that empty space from his presentstandpoint, and he was both astonished and relieved to note how narrowand inconspicuous it looked. Certainly, he had less to fear than hesupposed, and when, upon Mr. Brotherson's invitation, he stepped intothe room, it was with a dash of his former audacity, which gave him,unfortunately, perhaps, a quick, strong and unexpected likeness to hisold self.

  But if Brotherson noticed this, nothing in his manner gave proof of thefact. Though usually averse to visitors, especially when employed as atpresent on his precious model, he quite warmed towards his unexpectedguest, and even led the way to where it stood uncovered on the table.

  "You find me at work," he remarked. "I don't suppose you understand anybut your own?"

  "If you mean to ask if I understand what you're trying to do there, I'mfree to say that I don't. I couldn't tell now, off-hand, whether it's anair-ship you're planning, a hydraulic machine or--or--" He stopped, witha laugh and turned towards the book-shelves. "Now here's what I like.These books just take my eye."

  "Look at them, then. I like to see a man interested in books. Only, Ithought if you knew how to handle wire, I would get you to hold this endwhile I work with the other."

  "I guess I know enough for that," was Sweetwater's gay rejoinder. Butwhen he felt that communicating wire in his hand and experienced forthe first time the full influence of the other's eye, it took all hishardihood to hide the hypnotic thrill it gave him. Though he smiledand chatted, he could not help asking himself between whiles, what hadkilled the poor washerwoman across the court, and what had killed MissChalloner. Something visible or something invisible? Something whichgave warning of attack, or something which struck in silence. He foundhimself gazing long and earnestly at this man's hand, and wonderingif death lay under it. It was a strong hand, a deft, clean-cut member,formed to respond to the slightest hint from the powerful braincontrolling it. But was this its whole story. Had he said all when hehad said this?

  Fascinated by the question, Sweetwater died a hundred deaths in hisawakened fancy, as he followed the sharp short instructions which fellwith cool precision from the other's lips. A hundred deaths, I say, butwith no betrayal of his folly. The anxiety he showed was that of oneeager to please, which may explain why on the conclusion of his task,Mr. Brotherson gave him one of his infrequent smiles and remarked, as heburied the model under its cover, "You're handy and you're quiet at yourjob. Who knows but that I shall want you again. Will you come if I callyou?"

  "Won't I?" was the gay retort, as the detective thus released, stoopedfor the book still lying on the floor. "Paolo and Francesca," he read,from the back, as he laid it on the table. "Poetry?" he queried.

  "Rot," scornfully returned the other, as he moved to take down a bottleand some glasses from a cupboard let into another portion of the wall.

  Sweetwater taking advantage of the moment, sidled towards the shelfwhere that empty space still gaped with the tell-tale hole at the back.He could easily have replaced the missing book before Mr. Brothersonturned. But the issue was too doubtful. He was dealing with noabsent-minded fool, and it behooved him to avoid above all thingscalling attention to the book or to the place on the shelf where itbelonged.

  But there was one thing he could do and did. Reaching out a finger asdeft as Brotherson's own, he pushed a second volume into the place ofthe one that was gone. This veiled the auger-hole completely; a factwhich so entirely relieved his mind that his old smile came back likesunshine to his lips, and it was only by a distinct effort that he keptthe dancing humour from his eyes as he prepared to refuse the glasswhich Brotherson now brought forward:

  "None of that!" said he. "You mustn't tempt me. The doctor has shut downon all kinds of spirits for two months more, at least. But don't let mehinder you. I can bear to smell the stuff. My turn will come again someday."

  But Brotherson did not drink. Setting down the glass he carried, he tookup the book lying near, weighed it in his hand and laid it down again,with an air of thoughtful inquiry. Then he suddenly pushed it towardsSweetwater. "Do you want it?" he asked.

  Sweetwater was too taken aback to answer immediately. This was a move hedid not understand. Want it, he? What he wanted was to see it put backin its place on the shelf. Did Brotherson suspect this? The suppositionwas incredible; yet who could read a mind so mysterious?

  Sweetwater, debating the subject, decided that the risk of adding to anysuch possible suspicion was less to be dreaded than the continued threatoffered by that unoccupied space so near the hole which testified sounmistakably of the means he had taken to spy upon this suspected man'sprivacy. So, after a moment of awkward silence, not out of keeping withthe character he had assumed, he calmly refused the present as he hadthe glass.

  Unhappily he was not rewarded by seeing the despised volume restored toits shelf. It still lay where its owner had pushed it, when, with someawkwardly muttered thanks, the discomfited detective withdrew to his ownroom.