by Rex Stout
And they hadn’t. Driscoll completed the frame in the next inning, and the game was ended.
“Enough!” said Dougherty. “Dumain ought to be ashamed of himself. He’s a blooming professional. It’s time to eat, anyway. Come on.”
The others trooped out in a body, while Knowlton remained behind to pay for the game. He had just pocketed his change and was turning to follow, when he heard his name called. At his elbow was Billy Sherman, who had remained seated in a corner while the others were playing.
“Did you call me?” asked Knowlton.
“Yes,” said Sherman. “I want a word with you—alone.”
His eyes glittered with hostility and with a certain air of command as he turned to leave the room with a gesture to Knowlton to follow.
Knowlton appeared surprised, but obeyed with a shrug of the shoulders. “Another of Miss Williams’s chaperons,” he thought. “Jove, they’re worse than a pack of women!”
Sherman led the way down the hall, round a corner, and into a small room containing a table or two, some chairs, and a sofa—evidently a private parlor. When Knowlton had followed him inside he locked the door. Then, motioning Knowlton to a chair, he stood before him with his hands in his pockets, looking down on him with an insolent leer.
But Knowlton refused to be impressed. “This air of mystery appeals to me,” he smiled. “Is it murder or merely a sermon? Now that you have aroused my expectations, I shall expect you to satisfy them.”
Sherman, disregarding him, came directly to the point. “You were talking with Miss Williams,” he said abruptly.
Knowlton, with a smile of amusement, admitted it.
“Well, you’ll have to cut it,” said Sherman calmly.
“But why?”
“No questions. I say cut it.”
“Mr. Sherman”—Knowlton’s voice remained calm—“you are impudent. This thing is no longer amusing. It is decidedly tiresome. I shall talk to whomever I please.”
Sherman nodded.
“I expected you to say that. Very well. In that case, I have a story to tell you.” He leaned forward, and continued in a tone of sneering insult: “I lived for ten years in a little town called Warton. Does that interest you?”
Knowlton turned suddenly pale, and appeared to control himself with an effort.
“Well?” he said finally.
“Well,” repeated Sherman, with a smile of satisfaction at having touched his man, “isn’t that enough? If it isn’t, listen to this. You don’t need to talk; I’ll spare you the trouble.
“In the first place, there’s the Warton National Bank. I know they’re done with you; but it shows I know what I’m talking about.
“I know why you left Warton. I know why you came to New York, and I know who brought you. I know why you call yourself John Knowlton instead of—you know what. I know why you choose a new hangout every week, and I know where you get the coin. Is that enough?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you are driving at,” said Knowlton, with a light laugh. If it was acting, it was cleverly done. “I do come from Warton, and my name is not John Knowlton; but anybody is welcome to that information. As for the rest—is it a puzzle?”
Sherman grinned.
“You do it very well,” he admitted. “But it’s no go. I’m on. That’s what I know. Now, here’s what I want:
“Today I saw you talking to Miss Williams; and, frankly, I don’t like the way she looked at you. These other guys are dubs. They don’t bother me. They can buy roses forever if they want to. But that little Williams girl looks good to me, and it’s me for her.
“If I can’t get her one way, I’ll take her another. But I’ll get her. As I said, these other guys don’t count. But you do. I don’t like the way she looked at you. And it’s your move.”
“You mean?”
“I mean just this—beat it.”
“And if I don’t?”
“The cops.”
Knowlton rose to his feet, smiling.
“Stand away,” he said pleasantly. Sherman, unsuspecting and wondering a little at the request, obeyed it.
Then, like a leaping flame, Knowlton’s fist shot forth straight from the shoulder. With terrific force it caught Sherman full in the face. He staggered, fell against a table, then dropped to the floor in a heap.
Knowlton, with the light of battle in his eyes, stood above him with clenched fists. Then, without a word, he turned, unlocked the door, and disappeared into the hall.
Sherman sat up, lifted his hand gingerly to his face, and let out a volley of curses.
“Well,” he muttered, “I made a bad guess. And yet—I can’t be wrong. He’s crooked and I’ll get him. And when I do I’ll pay him for this.”
He rose to his feet painfully and made his way unobserved to the street.
CHAPTER III.
Hidden Wires
ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING KNOWLTON WAS formally enrolled as a member of the Erring Knights. “The qualifications,” said Tom Dougherty, “are a good pair of biceps and a boundless esteem for Miss Lila Williams. The dues are two dozen roses each week. A fresh bouquet every morning. Your day will be Saturday.”
Dumain was really not quite easy about it. He himself had introduced Knowlton to the Lamartine, and he knew nothing whatever about him, having picked him up in a Broadway café by accident. But, as was quite right for a palmist and clairvoyant, he trusted to Providence for justification of his action.
From that day forth Knowlton took his place and held it. In spite of his superior education and breeding, he seemed exactly to fit, and within a week had earned quite a reputation as a good fellow. He always had money, and leisure and willingness to spend it.
Nothing came of the encounter with Sherman. A day or two afterward they had met in the billiard room. Dumain and Knowlton were playing.
“Take a cue, Sherman?” Dumain had said.
“If Knowlton doesn’t object,” Sherman replied.
“Not I,” laughed Knowlton. “You can’t bluff in billiards, you know. It’s either hit or miss.”
The significance of this remark was not lost on Sherman.
No one knew anything of the nature of Knowlton’s occupation, or even if he had any. He was in the Lamartine at all hours of the day, and he always had leisure to perform any favor or meet any engagement.
He had one habit that aroused some comment. Two or three times each week he sent a telegram at Lila’s desk. It always bore the same address.
Laughingly alluding to their first meeting, he always insisted on paying with a ten-dollar bill, and the state of Lila’s cash drawer became a standing joke between them. Lila wondered a little about the mysterious telegrams; in fact, she wondered about everything connected with him—and knew nothing.
She even wondered why she was interested in him; why she looked forward to the sight of his face and the sound of his voice. For her innocence was that of inexperience and ignorance—the purest if not the best. It led her into a score of charming deceptions, of which, however, she herself was always the victim.
One of these had to do with the bouquet of roses.
In the first place, no girl likes to receive flowers unless she knows who gives them to her. So, on the first appearance of the glorious vase, Lila had set about discovering its source.
Let us not be too harsh on the poor little messenger boy. It is true that he had promised Dougherty not to tell, but if you blame him severely for his betrayal of the confidence it merely proves that you know nothing of the charm of Lila’s smile.
It would have coaxed a secret from the Sphinx herself. Thus she became aware that the roses were the gift of the Erring Knights, furnished by each in his turn.
Then one morning, about a week after the first appearance of Knowlton, she decided that her information was not sufficiently definite. Observe the effect of love! Ordinarily Lila was the most open and straightforward creature in the world. But see the cunning of her procedure!
“Jimmie,
” she said to the messenger boy, “the roses yesterday were the most beautiful shade I have ever seen. Do you know who got them?”
“What’s today—Saturday?” Jimmie asked.
“Yes. Yesterday was Friday.”
“Then it was Mr. Driscoll.”
“Oh!” Lila hesitated. “And who—who gets them on Thursday?”
“Mr Dumain—Frenchy.”
“And on Wednesday?”
Jimmie remained silent and eyed her keenly.
“Mr. Knowlton’s day is Saturday,” he said finally. “That’s today.”
Lila blushed a rosy pink.
“Jimmie!” she exclaimed.
“Aw, come off! Don’t you think I know nothin’?” said the boy. Only a boy—or a woman—could have guessed it.
Lila was silent. But that evening she took the bouquet of roses home with her. As to what she did with them after she got them there, you must guess for yourself. Unlike Jimmie, I can keep a secret.
A month passed uneventfully.
Dumain improved his play at billiards till he threatened to take part in a tournament; Jennings reported daily concerning his contract with Charles Frohman; Knowlton continued to spend his ten-dollar bills on telegrams at Lila’s desk, and Driscoll spouted the classics on all occasions. Dougherty and Booth held down their chairs and talked philosophy.
Since the day of Knowlton’s introduction, Sherman, who had always been barely tolerated by the others, had increased his attentions to Lila to a point where they were noticed by several of the others. But, as Driscoll said, they regarded him as harmless.
Had Lila cared to speak she could have told them that which would have caused them to think differently; but she bore his troublesome attentions in silence. And if she had but known the depth of his treachery and the strength of his passion for her, she would have feared him, instead of merely despising him, and avoided many a poignant hour of sorrow and anxiety.
But Sherman cleverly concealed his real nature and treacherous designs under an appearance of blunt frankness. It must be admitted that the others were easily deceived. But then what cause had they for suspicion? We learn of the presence of the deadly rattlesnake only when we hear his warning rattle, and Sherman, like the serpent, was waiting silently for the time to spring.
It was Dumain who first noticed that Lila carried home the bouquet of roses on Saturday evening. These Frenchmen have an eye for such things. He watched and discovered that this compliment was paid on Saturdays only.
Now Dumain was not exactly jealous. The mere fact that Lila exhibited a preference for Knowlton’s roses did not disturb him; but the question was, what had Knowlton done to bring about such a state of affairs? For it was evident to Dumain that Knowlton must have done or said something thus to have installed himself in the first place in Lila’s affections.
Of course, Dumain was mistaken. A girl gives her heart not to a man’s actions or words, but to the man himself. Knowlton was innocent of any treachery to the Erring Knights. He was not to blame for the vagaries of Dan Cupid.
But when, for the fourth Saturday in succession, he saw Lila carefully place the roses in a large paper bag and leave the hotel with the bag under her arm, he could contain himself no longer. He called to Knowlton, who was talking with the Venus at the cigar stand.
Knowlton walked over to him in a secluded corner of the lobby.
“I want to talk to you,” said Dumain.
“Fire away!” said Knowlton.
“It is about zee roses.”
“Roses?”
“Yes. Zee roses you gave to Miss Williams.”
“What about them?”
Dumain pointed toward Lila’s desk.
“You see. Zee vase is empty.”
“Why, so it is,” said Knowlton. “I wonder—that’s funny.”
“Very funny.” said Dumain sarcastically. “Now, where are they?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you mean to say you don’t know?”
“I don’t know.”
Dumain eyed him incredulously.
“Well, zen, I tell you,” he said finally. “Miss Williams took zem home.”
Knowlton seemed surprised.
“Miss Williams took them home?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Well, they are hers, aren’t they? Hasn’t she a right to do as she pleases with them? Why do you trouble me about it?”
“Because she pay zat compliment to no one but you,” said Dumain impressively.
“What? How—only to me?”
“She never take any roses home but yours. She does it now for—oh, a month. And what does zat mean? It means you’re a traitor. It means you’ve deceived us. It means you are trying to make zee impression on Mees Williams, and I am afraid you succeed.”
Knowlton appeared to be touched. His face colored, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. Was it possible that this evidence of an interest in him on the part of Miss Williams found a corresponding thrill in his own breast?
Suddenly he smiled—a smile of genuine amusement.
“Dumain,” he said, “you fellows are the limit. You’re not only amusing—you’re extremely dense. I would be very happy indeed if I could believe that Miss Williams had singled me out for the distinction you mention; but the real cause of her seeming preference is only too evident.”
“Well?”
“Every evening,” Knowlton continued, “Miss Williams’s roses are left to adorn the lobby of this hotel. It is by her order, as you know. But as she is at home on Sunday she wants them on that day for herself.
“So every Saturday evening she takes them home. That must be the correct explanation. She can’t even know that I bought them.”
Dumain’s little round face was filled with light.
“Of course!” he exclaimed. “What an ass am I! Forgive me, Knowlton. Zen she doesn’t care for you?”
“I’m afraid not.” Knowlton smiled. But the smile was not an easy one.
“And you haven’t been trying to—”
“My good fellow,” Knowlton interrupted him, “as long as I am an Erring Knight I shall act only in the role of protector.”
At that moment Driscoll approached and the interview was ended. Knowlton wandered over to the cigar stand, bought a packet of cigarettes, and, lighting one, transferred the remainder to a silver-mounted leather case. Then strolling past Lila’s desk with a nod, he stopped in front of the lounge in the corner and exchanged the time of day with Harry Jennings and Billy Sherman.
After a few minutes of desultory conversation with Jennings, during which Sherman sat noticeably silent, Knowlton, glancing at his watch and observing that he had an engagement, left the lobby of the hotel, and started up Broadway.
He had no sooner disappeared man Sherman sprang up from the lounge, left by the side door, and followed him some twenty paces in the rear.
Broadway was crowded and Sherman was forced to keep close to his quarry in order not to lose sight of him. Knowlton walked with a swinging, athletic stride, looking neither to right nor left—ordinarily the gait of a man who has nothing to fear and nothing to be ashamed of. Now and then the pressure of the crowd caused him to make a detour, and Sherman dodged in and out behind him.
At Madison Square Knowlton stopped abruptly and looked first to one side, then the other. On account of the congested traffic at that point the action was perfectly natural, and Sherman, who had darted quickly behind a standing cab, was convinced that he had not been seen. After a short wait Knowlton stepped off the curb, crossed the square, and proceeded up Broadway.
At Twenty-eighth Street he turned suddenly and disappeared through the swinging doors of a café.
Sherman approached, and halted a foot from the door.
“Now,” he muttered, “if I only dared go in! I’d give a ten-spot to know who he’s with in there. That would settle it. But they’ll probably come out together, anyway.” He retired to a doorway nearby and waited.
In a few minutes Knowlton emerged alone. Sherman, cursing under his breath, hesitated and appeared ready to give it up; then, with a gesture of decision, he resumed the chase with an air of determined resolve. Knowlton had quickened his step, and Sherman had to move swiftly to overtake him.
At Thirtieth Street Knowlton turned westward. At once the pursuer’s task became more difficult. There was no crowd of pedestrians here, as on Broadway, and there was imminent danger of discovery. Twice when Knowlton halted he was forced to dodge aside into a doorway.
At Sixth Avenue Sherman found his passage obstructed by a passing cab. It was empty. Struck by a sudden thought, he sprang inside and, thinking thus to lessen the chances of detection, pointed to Knowlton and instructed the driver to follow him.
The driver grinned, wheeled his cab sharply, and turned down Thirtieth Street.
They crossed Seventh Avenue and Eighth, past rows of five-story apartment houses, with their narrow brass-railed stoops and air of dingy respectability. Straight ahead at a distance the Hudson could be seen shimmering in the light of the winter sun; from the rear came the sounding rumble and rattle of an Elevated train above the low, never-ceasing hum of the great city.
Knowlton continued his rapid stride to Ninth Avenue, and beyond, while the cab followed cautiously. Then suddenly he turned in at the entrance of one of a row of apartment houses. By the time the cab approached he had disappeared within.
Sherman ordered the driver to halt in front of the entrance, while a look of disappointment and chagrin covered his face. “Well, I’ll be hanged,” he said finally. “I thought sure I had him this time. And here he comes home to take a nap!”
He sat undecided in a corner of the cab.
“Hello, Sherman!” came a voice from above.
Sherman, startled, leaned out through the cab door and looked up. Knowlton was leaning out of an open window on the second story of the apartment house he had entered, looking down with an amused grin.
“Won’t you come up and have some tea?” he sang out pleasantly.
Sherman’s face colored with rage.
“No, thank you, Mr. John Norton,” he called. Then he turned and shouted at the driver to go on, while his brain whirled with the thousand wild schemes of a baffled and enraged man.