CHAPTER XI.
A KISS IN THE DARK.
Bertha Lund's aunt, Mrs. Christenson, kept a boarding house for Swedes,on a street near the water front. By virtue of an intelligence-officelicense she was also empowered to obtain places in domestic service fornewly imported Frederikas and Katherinkas. But the Swedish housemaid isone of those rare commodities in which the demand exceeds the supply. Sothere had been no crowded gallery of sodden faces around thewaiting-room when Emily called Thursday morning before going to work,but only two or three laughing maidens who chatted with the boarders.All had the bloom of a winter apple in their cheeks and their blue eyessparkled with reflections of the sea. Mrs. Christenson was making termswith a lady in an inner room.
"You wish for a servant?" she said, coming forward pleasantly.
"My business is with Miss Bertha Lund, your niece. I believe she islodging here."
"My niece is gone," answered the landlady, unceremoniously turning herback and shutting the door with that emphasis which is feminine forprofanity. Then her voice was heard, pitched a little higher, as sheinterpreted the silvery Swedish of the girl within, for the benefit ofher future mistress.
"Something must be wrong," thought Emily. But there was nothing for herto do but retreat, somewhat hurt and a great deal troubled. She hadreached the head of the stairs when one of the domestics in thewaiting-room came forward sympathetically and in her pretty, brokenEnglish explained Mrs. Christenson's conduct. Bertha, it seems, had notreturned home since the night of the trial. Search had been made forher, but without result. From what the girl said, though this was putguardedly and in an almost inaudible whisper, Emily inferred thatBertha, who was naturally quick-tempered, had chafed under her aunt'simperious discipline and had probably gone to board with some friend,registering herself for employment meanwhile in one of the otherintelligence offices. Once before she had manifested the same impatienceof restraint and had disappeared into the country for an entire summer.
It was still possible, even probable, that she could be found if searchwere instituted at once. Bertha had only a day's start of her pursuer,and it was not likely that she had secured a situation to her taste sosoon. Emily formed the heroic resolve to scour the intelligence officesherself. Finding the list in the directory incomplete, she boldlyvisited police headquarters, from which licenses are issued, and copiedthe name and address of every keeper in the city.
With a letter from one of the police commissioners and a minutedescription of Bertha at her tongue's end, Emily had passed from officeto office, braving discourtesy and even insult. As this was the busyseason her truancy from the studio would have to be made up by lamplightwork, which meant ache to her weary eyes, and the unwonted climbing ofstairs and trudging about for hours soon exhausted her small stock ofstrength. But Emily was less concerned over her personal sacrifice thanover the failure of her inquiries. By 4 o'clock her task was stilluncompleted. The rounds of the offices had not been half-made. Still noBertha could be found, no girl answering her description or dressed asBertha had been dressed at the trial having applied for work on theprevious day. With a cloud of despondency forming over her heart, onlylightened by a dim hope of consolation from Shagarach, she had turnedher steps in the direction of his office when John Davidson overtookher.
"Not to be found!" echoed the marshal.
"When was she seen last?" inquired Shagarach, calmly.
"The evening of the trial," answered Emily. "She hasn't returned to heraunt's, where she was lodging, since then."
"Why, I saw the girl talking with McCausland," said Davidson.
"When?" asked the lawyer.
"Tuesday evening. Everybody else had gone and Miss Barlow and I werealone in the ante-chamber. McCausland put his head in, as if he wantedthe room, and I noticed two women behind him. One was the housemaid andthe other was----"
"Mrs. Arnold?"
"True enough. 'Twa'nt no need to tell you, was it?"
The marshal's eyes grew big with admiration.
"Merely a guess. Bertha Lund is a government witness, and McCausland hasa habit of keeping his witnesses under cover, especially when they arepoor and he is fighting wealth or influence. However, we have a right toknow all Bertha knows. Could you find out if she is living with theArnolds?" he said, turning to Emily.
"They are out of town, but I'll make inquiries," answered the resolutegirl.
"This may be of use." Shagarach handed her the note he had rapidlywritten. It was unsealed and addressed to the warden of the stateprison. When the young girl was settled again to John Davidson'ssatisfaction in the seat of his buggy, she opened the envelope and readits contents aloud:
"My Dear Sir: The bearer, Miss Emily Barlow, is assigned to important duties for the defense in the cause of Commonwealth vs. Floyd. I shall esteem it a favor if you will grant her admission to the defendant as my personal representative at all times when she may apply to you. Respectfully yours,
"MEYER SHAGARACH, "Counsel for the Accused."
"Well, that was clever, wasn't it?" said old John Davidson, and for therest of the ride he entertained her with anecdotes of Shagarach's mostmemorable victories, as well as other fascinating relations. For themarshal, among his many virtues, was a famous traveler, being one of thehandful who can boast of having set foot in every state of our union. Hemay not have been a marvel of detective cunning, as McCausland hadintimated, but Emily had forgotten all about her fatigue and was in anagreeably hopeful frame of mind when he set her down before her housedoor in the plain side street.
That night Robert Floyd slept in a state prison cell. The atmosphere ofthe place oppressed him. Everything, down to the very keys and padlocks,was more massive than at the county jail. Led along a narrow corridor bytenanted cells, whose inmates came to the bars and greeted him, orcrouched in the inmost recesses, he was reminded of a menagerie ofdangerous beasts. At the door of his own cell the revulsion had seizedhim like an epileptic fit and he had wrenched himself loose from thejailer. In an instant four vise-like hands were tightened on him and hewas flung bodily into the apartment. The iron door swung to with a clangand he heard the jailer's footsteps receding.
"Coo-ee! Ducky, don't ee like ee c'adle?"
"He's a lifer, sure!"
"Don't cry, Johnnie. You'll never get out any more."
"I move a resolution of sympathy for our newly elected associate. All infavor, curse Longlegs!"
There is a passage in Bach's "Passion" music where the infuriated Jews,being offered the choice of pardon for Barabbas or the Savior, shriekout the name of the robber. Robert remembered thinking that up to thenhe had never heard anything more devilish than the roar of rage withwhich the multitude express their preference for "Barabbas!" But thechorus of curses from the convict pack that greeted the sobriquet of"Longlegs" was like an uproar from still lower deeps, where spirits morehideous than the deicides may be confined.
This is not the normal temper of prisons, by any means. But theGeorgetown prison had been for months in a state of incipient mutiny andthe brewing storm was now threatening to break. Among the grounds ofcomplaint alleged against the present warden was his retention of theobnoxious turnkey, "Longlegs," who was loathed as a "squealer," becausehe could not be bought. It was further alleged that the men's tobaccorations had been unjustly diminished one-half, such a thing as gratitudefor the allowance of this luxury at all not entering their minds. Theteams that carted goods from the workshops had recently been put incharge of prison employes, and a useful means of communication withouter friends thus cruelly cut off. In the eyes of the "solitaries" and"hard-labor" men their bill of rights had been monstrously trampledupon, and there was ample cause for the deposing of Warden Tapp and theestablishment of anarchy in the institution. Only the "lifers" were forpeace.
"Half a plug is better than no smoke, boys," said John Bryant, who hadkilled his wife, humorously. But he had served fourteen years alreadyand lived in hopes of a pardon some Thanksgiving day for his g
oodbehavior.
After exhibiting so clearly their position "against the government,"Robert's fellow-lodgers began to put inquiries to himself.
"Say, freshy, what's your name?"
Robert was too exasperated, too disgusted, to answer.
"He's tongue-tied."
"Wants his supper."
"Look out for a spy, fellers. That ain't true blue."
"Mum's the word."
It was evident that Floyd's refusal to make free had branded him at oncewith the stamp of unpopularity. But the young man had other thoughts tooccupy his mind. He was pondering upon his own terrible plight and uponShagarach's visit. Fully an hour must have passed in these reflections,for it was very dark, when they were disturbed by a low remark from hisleft-hand neighbor.
"Say, chummy, I hain't one of these 'ere bloomin' mutineers."
It was a wheezy voice and Floyd remembered to have heard at intervalsfrom that quarter one of those racking coughs which distress thelistener almost as much as the sufferer. The man seemed to be in therear of his cell and to have his mouth to the wall. Robert said nothing,but his interest was languidly aroused.
"Say, get into the hospital, Dobbs," remarked a voice that was beginningto be familiar to Robert.
"I 'ave been in the 'ospital, you unfeelin', bloomin' coves," repliedthe asthmatic prisoner.
"Ho, ee's Henglish, ee his," said some one, whereupon there was a faintstorm of laughter. Robert's sympathy was enlisted on the side of the mancalled Dobbs. His uncle had been an Englishman and the national feelingwas strong in the nephew. Speaking as low as possible, so that theothers might not hear, he said to Dobbs:
"You are an Englishman? This is bad company you've got into."
"Lord, me boy, Hi know that--a scurvy job lot o' bloomin' ordinary covesas I'd cut dead if Hi was a gentleman of fortune. But you see Hihain't. Being only Bill Dobbs, Hi can't afford to preach hinnocence, andchoose me hown 'ouse-mates, like a juke."
The cough choked his utterance for awhile and evoked furtherremonstrance from the yawning crew around him.
"What is your sentence?" asked Robert.
"Height years for burglary--if they can 'old me," and Bill Dobbschuckled knowingly, like one who had tested the fragility of prisonwalls before. "W'ich, bein' a slippery fish, is a question Hi 'ave beenconsiderin' seriously."
"Why did you leave England?" asked Robert.
"The climate is gettin' so warm," answered the cockney. "W'y, the gulfstream is comin' so near us there it would almost boil a turkey.Hawfully bloomin' 'ot, you know, chummy. I'm a-winkin' at you."
"Especially about Scotland Yard, I suppose. You're a professionalburglar?"
"Not always, young man. Hi 'ad a Henglish mother once, w'ich I shallnever forget 'ow she 'eard my prayers. And hevery day Hi dressed myselfup in my blue blouse and breeches, and my dinner pail (w'ich wasn'thempty) under my harm, and hevery bloomin' bobby I met says Hi to him,says Hi: 'Hi'm Martin Thimblethorpe, from the west country, and can youtell me w'ere's Regent row?' Blarst me if they wouldn't point theirfingers this way and that way and follow my departing footsteps with alook of pride, as much as to say: 'There goes a honest Hinglishworkingman; see 'is hindependent hair."
"But you never worked very hard, I fancy, with your blouse and yourdinner-pail?"
"'Ard? Hi fancy Hi did."
"What did you do?"
"Jeweler's 'elp."
"That is, you sold your plunder to a fence?"
"Fence? Wot fence? Hi 'ad an accommodatin' friend in the business, whoasked no impertinent questions and paid me 'alf price for mycontributions--w'ich was bloomin' low figures, considering Hi neveraccepted hanything cheap. If there's one class Hi 'ate, positively 'ate,young man, it's them bloomin' shoddy gaffers wot sport a genteelreputation on plated spoons and paste."
"You always discriminated against such people?"
"Halways! Ho, it used to do my 'eart good," continued Dobbs, chucklingat the reminiscence, "w'en they wrote up one of my nocturnal visits (Hihalways make my collections in the quiet hours of the hevenin') as 'owthe leavin' of the plated ware and the abandonin' of a temptin' case ofhartificial diamonds shows the 'and of the solitary cracksman. There'sappreciation, Hi used to say! There's fame! You 'it it 'appily, youngman. Hi always discriminated."
"Martin Thimblethorpe, then, was the solitary cracksman, and your realname is Dobbs?"
"Bill Dobbs. Wot's your line, chummy? Fashionable embezzlement? Hiadmire that line. It's genteel and the perquisites is liberalaccordingly."
Floyd was getting interested in spite of himself. These first-handexperiences of a professional burglar were life, and in spite of thefellow's utter villainy and vulgarity (he could almost see his cunningleer through the walls) they had a spice of romance that held him. Buttheir colloquy was interrupted just here by a sound of footsteps and theapproach of a light, which set the whole ward raving again.
"Shut up your screeching," came a voice of command, at which themutinous crew subsided, and Robert heard apologetic remarks.
"It's Gradger."
"It isn't Longlegs."
"We thought it was Longlegs."
Gradger, for some reason, was a favorite with the men. He went straightto Floyd's cell and pointed him out to Emily Barlow.
"Emily!"
"Robert!"
That was all they could say for awhile.
"My darling," cried Robert, who was the first to recover command ofhimself. He was indignant to think that she, too, should be forced intothese surroundings. "Why have you come here?"
"Only to be with you for a few moments, Robert. I thought of you allfriendless and lonesome."
"God bless you, dear. But you must not remain. Go away quickly and donot come here again."
It was the old, natural instinct to screen the purer half of our racefrom degrading contact with things we ourselves must meet.
"But why should I not visit you, Robert?"
"Because this is hell and you are an angel."
He drew her to him and kissed her through the bars. Instantly the soundwas re-echoed a hundred times, distorted and vulgarized, throughout theward. In the silence which followed Emily's first words, the sweetheartshad forgotten their audience of thieves and cutthroats, to whom everysyllable was audible. Hierarchs of sin, virtuosos in infamy, all thedemon in their souls seemed roused by this innocent pledge of mutualfaith between youth and maiden, and even the stern threats of Gradgercould not silence their outbreak of hideous derision.
Emily started back as red as fire.
"Go, darling," cried Robert, between his set teeth, while shouts of "Ta,ta, Robert," "Kiss me, Emily," intermingled with the foul ribaldrygenerated in minds shut away from all purifying touch of womanhood,taunted the fleeing girl and roused her imprisoned lover's passion tofrenzy. He could have strangled three of them single-handed.
"Better call daytimes, miss, when the men are working in the shops,"said Gradger. He had not taken Emily for a girl who herself had to workdaytimes in a shop.
Meanwhile the storm raged louder and louder, and several turnkeys werecalled to quell the disturbance and carry the ringleaders away to the"block." But the more it volleyed around him the cooler grew youngFloyd. His resentment gradually hardened to a kind of pitying scorn, andwhen the last oath died away it was with sweeter thoughts that he hadindulged for three bitter nights that he laid his head on the pallet anddrowsed into oblivion. His pillow lay close to the point of the wallwhere Dobbs liked to do his talking, and while the midnight bell wasringing he thought he heard the cracksman whisper:
"The young lady stretched it, chummy. You 'ave one friend 'ere. Let 'emscreech their bloomin' lungs off."
But this may have been a dream.
The Incendiary: A Story of Mystery Page 11