by Jay Lake
“Thank heavens, you’ve come!” exploded Guest, wheeling to confront Lacey as the latter strode into the room.
“Landlord been around?” demanded Lacey, grinning wryly as he pried out a thin roll of twenties from his trousers pocket. Along with the bills came an empty sack of tobacco and two pennies, one of which fell to the floor. “A hundred was the best I could charge Lehmann, though it was worth at least an additional fifty. Otherwise he’d have held me up a week or two. This’ll give us a ten-spot on which to eat, beside paying the rent. Any clients come in since I left?”
Guest’s mouth had opened soundlessly half a dozen times in the attempt to speak. Now he gestured aside the money both of them so sorely needed, granting it only a tolerant nod, and pushed Lacey down into a squeaky swivel.
“Listen to your bright little sunbeam!” he adjured. “Our big client’s sent for us, for you, I mean! I didn’t know whether you’d get back today or next week, so I tried to sell him myself, but no, that wouldn’t do. Kuban Lacey was the only detective he’d have anything to do with. So you beat it down to the sidearm, fill up on beans and excelsior, and hop a cab for—hm, let me see—3217—”
“A cab?” interjected Cube incredulously. “Not this starved sleuth! You and I can’t afford flourishes of that kind—yet. No, I’ll save the extra three simoleons for ham-ends while we’re waiting for somebody to kill or kidnap somebody else in a mysterious manner, and demand our services.” He opened the tobacco sack, whisked a paper out of its cover, and poured a dusty pinch of yellow flakes, evening it with practised forefinger. “But who is this personage for whom you’d brave the lean and hungry wolf?”
“It’s that cranky North Shore millionaire, that hermit chap. If’s he’s got any kind of a case for us—” stuttered Guest, convincingly. He often had difficulty starting a sentence when sincerely excited, though little else than an epochal event could bring him to this state.
“His name?” interrupted Lacey, an odd, almost belligerent expression appearing in the set of clean, square jaw and narrowing of eyes.
“I didn’t say. Name’s Noah Lacey—same as yours. He’s the old codger who owns that estate up north with all the grounds landscaped in brick. Made his fortune out of manufacturing brick; or, at least, inherited the business and the first instalment of the money from his father. The Laceys have been doing that since about the time Chicago was a frontier post, I guess. Sure he isn’t any relative of yours?”
The last was asked in jesting manner, for no one knew better than Sherrod Guest how poverty-stricken both his partner and himself had been since deserting the comfortable reportorial jobs they had held. Oddly, the question brought a wry grimace to Lacey’s lips, however.
“I’m afraid you’re due for a disappointment here, old man,” he answered, watching sympathetically as the glow of buoyancy faded from Guest’s expression. “Noah happens to be my uncle—the only other surviving Lacey of our branch in the world. I never have met him. He and my father had a terrific quarrel years and years ago. Think it concerned repairs on a small building they owned jointly, or some such trivial matter. Dad had been disowned, anyway, and perhaps was a little touchy concerning relations with Noah, who was grandfather’s favorite. Anyway, Noah and dad never spoke again to each other. Personally I have no hard feelings toward my uncle, but I have not gone near him since coming to Chicago simply because in the past twenty-five years he has become disgustingly rich. He’d be certain that I simply was trying to ingratiate myself. As a matter of fact I don’t want his money.”
Guest’s pacing had slowed. Now he sank dejectedly to the edge of a desk. “Fifty or a hundred bucks of it wouldn’t hit us badly just now,” he suggested with a feeble attempt at a smile for this statement which was nothing but the sad truth. After making a considerable name for themselves in crime investigation as reporters—but no money, save their salaries, and one moderate-sized reward which had gone to set them up in business—they had secured only small, unlucrative scraps of work. The first year had been a constant struggle to meet overhead expense and still eat.
“True enough!” agreed Lacey with an exhalation of breath. “I doubt like the mischief that old Noah has any use for a detective or that if he had he would employ us. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll call him up and see what he wants.” His hand reached for the telephone.
“Not much you won’t!” ejaculated Guest, bouncing into action and wrestling the instrument from Lacey’s hands. “We may not have the ghost of a chance at any of your esteemed uncle’s business, but just the same right now you haven’t a thing in the world to do. I have to go to court tomorrow, and I believe Myers has another one of his flea-bite cases for me. Said he’d drop around to talk it over at three o’clock. If you telephoned Uncle Midas you’d be just as apt to tell him to trot around here and hand you his business on a gold plate. Nope! You hustle out, grab a motor bus if you won’t take a taxi, and don’t waste a minute! Somehow I feel the squirmings of a life-sized poker hunch deep down inside me. I know I’m not much good at five-card whist, but—” He ended his sentence with a comical gesture, half shrug and half peremptory nod.
“Oh, all right,” acceded Cube Lacey. He stood up, buttoning overcoat and drawing on his gloves again. He stepped to the door, which had been left one inch ajar. “Hello!” he exclaimed in surprise. The opening door had revealed a person stooping forward, right on the threshold. Lacey saw instantly that the man was a fat, stocky Chinaman, though clad in conventional business garments.
Lacey recoiled involuntarily half a step, while the Oriental glanced up swiftly through slitted eyes, wheeled about and made off with rapid, cat-like tread toward the elevators. Quick conviction came to Lacey that the man had been eavesdropping, though for what imaginable reason only the yellow man himself could say. Lacey, however, had won success in the past by reason of his faculty for grasping and retaining for future use all scraps and odd ends of happenings incapable of instant explanation. Flinging a word of warning over his shoulder to Guest, he made off after the Chinaman. The latter, attempting to crowd his way into an overfilled elevator, was pushed back angrily by the guard. Lacey reached the Chinaman at that moment, and closed insistent fingers upon the stranger’s huge but flabby forearm.
“What did you want back there, snooping around my office?”
The yellow stranger’s eyelids dropped, but almost instantly he looked up again straight into Lacey’s eyes, his glance as innocent and wondering as that of a child. “Me? Oh yes. I lose a dollah. It drop. I t’ink mebbe it loll into office. I see door open—”
“Quite so, and I scared you so badly that you ran away, forgetting all about the dollar, eh?” mused Lacey. The Chinese nodded, wreathing wide mouth in an oily, placating grin. Lacey paid little attention, for he saw the black eyes did not smile. “Better come back and let me help you look for it,” he suggested, as Guest joined them, looking wonderingly from one to the other.
The search proved futile, as Lacey had expected. And even the best efforts of the two detectives failed to pry anything from the man. They had to let him go, for try as they might—and did—it was impossible to fathom any sinister reason which would make a Chinaman of intelligence above the average of his coolie kind listen to the purposeless planning of two destitute detectives.
“Now what do you suppose he wanted?” demanded Guest, when Lacey again was taking his departure.
“Oh, just a mistake I suppose,” answered Lacey carelessly. “He probably mistook your handsome face for that of Sherlock Holmes, and thought you were after him for opium smuggling, or something.” Nevertheless, Lacey himself was more puzzled by the queer occurrence than his manner indicated. His wonder was in no way abated by the fact that in the corridor below he noticed another Chinaman buying a paper at the newsstand—the identical Chinaman who, five minutes later, sat directly behind Lacey in the motor bus bound northward.
Chapter II
In the past Cube Lacey had heard of Brick Knob—the unalluring name
by which the home of his queer relative was known to newspaper men and the public. Built on a small rise of ground—the highest semblance of a hill within pistol shot of the lake for miles along the shore—it had now, because of high-rise construction, become completely hidden on three sides by a surrounding ring of tall apartment buildings. Only from the front was there access to the small estate, and here a seven-foot wall of brick, surmounted by broken bottles set in the mortar, barred the view of pedestrians.
Cube located a gate in center of this forbidding wall and tried to open it. It was locked. He found a bell at one side, however, and pressed the button. While he waited, he noted the curious fact that this door seemed to be of solid, wrought bronze, as massive as cathedral doors of the Old World. It could have withstood an assault by anything less potent than nitroglycerine.
Five minutes passed. Then a sharp click drew his attention. At the center of the door a panel had been slid aside; in the oblong aperture was framed the stern forbidding face of a man of middle age, lean, clean-shaven, and with grayish skin drawn tightly across protuberant cheek bones. Unmistakable print of a Slavic ancestry lay in both features and expression. Lacey knew instantly that this could not be his father’s brother.
“What do you want?” The voice was cold, uncompromising. Lacey guessed irrelevantly that Brick Knob was no favorite resort for hoboes now. Briefly, he explained his errand and tendered business card. One lean claw reached upward to the aperture and seized the pasteboard. A noncommittal grunt was followed by the terse adjuration to wait. Lacey obeyed. As the panel had been left open he took the liberty of watching the figure of this guardian of the gate as he returned toward the house.
Lacey saw a tall, thin man clad in black; a man who stooped slightly as he walked, yet whose figure suggested wiry strength and a resilience of sinew not yet corroded by age. The man probably would prove to be a house servant, though he seemed almost too serious and earnest for such a place. The yard across which he passed was drifted with half an inch of light snow, yet Lacey discerned that the newspapers had told the truth. It was paved entirely with brick. Not a shrub, tree, bench or pergola broke the bare, slanting expanse, which rose like the head of a mushroom to a low summit on which was placed the squat bungalow of brick—that type of architecture which conceals from any casual observer the actual immensity of any building.
The black-clad man moved straight for a flight of stairs giving upward to a broad veranda. Nearing the house Lacey saw him act in a peculiar manner. Suddenly breaking into a run he hastened awkwardly for six or seven steps, and then launched himself in a gigantic stride which covered at least two yards of the brick paving, and which landed him at the foot of the steps. Carried forward by his own impetus he took the latter three at a time, opened a pair of doors, and disappeared, carefully slamming these behind him.
Lacey whistled. Playful skittishness in a stern man of middle age is too unusual a trait not to excite wonder. Also, the rate of speed at which the servant had started to bear his message back to the house had not been suggestive in any manner of haste. The mad caper, and, indeed, the whole layout of house and grounds, were incomprehensible to Lacey, but he foresaw with distinctness that this wealthy relative of his was going to prove to be a curious character indeed.
A matter of what seemed more immediate personal interest drove milder speculation from his mind for the moment, however. Happening to glance across the narrow, motor thoroughfare, he noticed a well-dressed Chinaman sauntering slowly down the sidewalk. Though he could not be certain from that distance, Lacey thought that this was the same man who had followed him from his office building, and on the motor bus. At any rate he was certain that never before had he noticed so many Chinese in Occidental dress upon the streets of Chicago. He followed the casual stroller with his eyes until the latter reached and became lost in a crowd at the corner. Then Lacey swung about in time to see the black-clad man returning. The man now seemed to have lost all his madcap spirit of frolic and hurry. He descended the steps slowly and stalked straight across the intervening space.
“Just a moment, sir,” he said, a new hint of deference in his tone. Lacey heard the clank of a chain and the metallic ring of the ponderous lock. Then the massive door swung open three feet—to be closed, locked and chained immediately after Cube had entered. “Mr. Lacey will see you directly, sir.”
The two crossed the yard together. Lacey watched for the space where the other’s original footprints were spaced by his leap. He noted another curious fact. Three sets of tracks led across the snow, of course. Only one of these showed prints spaced normally. Coming first to answer his ring, and then while returning with the card, the man had leaped across this space! Lacey could be certain because the scuffed spots the man had made in slipping as he landed, were at opposite sides. Twice? Why had the man leaped across the identical spot a second time? It could not be coincidence. Lacey stepped gingerly, falling half a pace behind his guide, who strode across without paying any attention. As Lacey’s shoes pressed upon this two-yard interval his hands clenched suddenly in astonishment. Though the sensation was almost imperceptible—something which could not have been noticed unless under close, direct observation—it seemed that the solid brick gave ever so slightly beneath his weight! He was allowed no time for investigation or surmise, though. His guide ushered him into a broad hallway, turning as before to lock the doors with meticulous care.
This hallway appeared to be more of a lounge or den from the luxurious manner in which it was furnished. Sumptuous furniture was placed negligently about, and thick rugs the names of which Lacey could not even guess—realizing only that they were costly importations from the Orient—made footsteps soundless. On a taboret, below open crowded book shelves lining one side of the wall, in a double row, squatted a small bronze Buddha, his mask-like features illumined faintly by a Tiffany-shaded lamp which stood nearby.
On a stand of its own, in a small alcove opposite, reposed a single magnificent vase over two feet in height. In shape it appeared to be designed to hold long-stemmed lilies, though no flowers were in it at that time. Because indirect lights in the walls shed their glow upon it, Lacey saw that it was mottled brown in color, but holding in its glazed surface a curious pearly iridescence reminiscent of the finest work from the Sung period of Chinese art.
In his early days on the paper, Cube had been forced to cram on the subject of pottery and porcelain for the purpose of reporting various exhibits, so he realized that if this vase were genuine—and none of the other furnishings of the hall were of cheap or gaudy nature—it must be of greater value even than the long-napped rugs. One eight-panelled jar of somewhat similar surface, only somewhat larger than a tobacco humidor, Lacey had seen on sale for five thousand dollars. He stepped a pace nearer to indulge pardonable curiosity.…
“A remarkable piece of work, don’t you think?” asked a quiet voice at his elbow, a woman’s voice!
“Yes—eh, I mean, I beg your pardon, miss! I didn’t hear you. Certainly a piece of art. Chinese, isn’t it?”
Lacey had whirled, for an instant off his guard, but quickly regained composure. He saw that he would need it in this strange house, for not only had this girl appeared in the moment he had spent glancing at the vase, but the servant had vanished! He had heard no doors open or close.
His glance rested upon a slim figure, a woman lacking only a hand’s breadth of his own five feet eleven inches of height. A woman in her early twenties, he decided, and one who knew well how to dress to accentuate a most alluring patrician grace. Her face fascinated him, not because of great beauty, hut because all of the features were intended for place in a visage of superlative feminine charm—save only her eyes. These he could not distinguish, as over them lay a distinctly ugly pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, colored spectacles! These lent an odd twist of studiousness to her expression—a quality which a soft curve of chin and lips seemed to laugh at, and which impressed Lacey with a sudden, curious desire to analyze.
&nb
sp; She was speaking. Vaguely he realized that she had disclaimed technical knowledge of the vase. Then her next sentence came home to him sharply. “You must pardon uncle if he seems a little grouchy. He has been rather seriously ill the past two or three days. I didn’t think him able to see visitors, but he says he called you on the phone and wants very much to see you. You are his nephew, are you not?”
“Yes, Kuban Lacey,” he affirmed. Uncle! She had called Noah that. Did it mean that she was his own cousin? He asked.
She shook her head. Lips below those enormous glasses curved upward slightly. “No, not my real uncle,” she replied, and he felt rather uncomfortably that the hidden eyes were taking his measure with exactness. “My name is Irene Jeffries. I’m his ward, and he insists upon me calling him Uncle Noah while I’m here. His suite is straight back, at the right as you enter. Go ahead. I’ll open the door. Unless it seems necessary, don’t stay with him long, please. He seems weak.”
He obeyed, draping his overcoat over his arm. She did not accompany him, but stood still, looking after him in an attitude of expectancy. He wondered, with a surge of sardonic humor, if she thought he had come to fawn upon his wealthy relative, perhaps to win a substantial place in the manufacturer’s will. But no. This was not that sort of a girl. If only she would grant him a glance at her eyes she might do her worst with Noah Lacey and his millions. Cube had no expectation of being remembered in anyone’s will, and had no intention of toadying to secure such recognition.
To his surprise he saw a door opening before him. He glanced back, to see the girl nod at him to enter. The second he did so the tall panel—a door without knob or hinges that he could discern—fell silently and swiftly back into place. An exclamation rose to his lips. No one in sight in the great chamber beyond. No one, seemingly, had opened or closed the door.