The Man in Lower Ten

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  CHAPTER XXII. AT THE BOARDING-HOUSE

  I had not been home for thirty-six hours, since the morning of thepreceding day. Johnson was not in sight, and I let myself in quietlywith my latchkey. It was almost midnight, and I had hardly settledmyself in the library when the bell rang and I was surprised to findHotchkiss, much out of breath, in the vestibule.

  "Why, come in, Mr. Hotchkiss," I said. "I thought you were going home togo to bed."

  "So I was, so I was." He dropped into a chair beside my reading lamp andmopped his face. "And here it is almost midnight, and I'm wider awakethan ever. I've seen Sullivan, Mr. Blakeley."

  "You have!"

  "I have," he said impressively.

  "You were following Bronson at eight o'clock. Was that when ithappened?"

  "Something of the sort. When I left you at the door of the restaurant, Iturned and almost ran into a plain clothes man from the central office.I know him pretty well; once or twice he has taken me with him oninteresting bits of work. He knows my hobby."

  "You know him, too, probably. It was the man Arnold, the detective whomthe state's attorney has had watching Bronson."

  Johnson being otherwise occupied, I had asked for Arnold myself.

  I nodded.

  "Well, he stopped me at once; said he'd been on the fellow's trackssince early morning and had had no time for luncheon. Bronson, it seems,isn't eating much these days. I at once jotted down the fact, because itargued that he was being bothered by the man with the notes."

  "It might point to other things," I suggested. "Indigestion, you know."

  Hotchkiss ignored me. "Well, Arnold had some reason for thinking thatBronson would try to give him the slip that night, so he asked me tostay around the private entrance there while he ran across the Streetand got something to eat. It seemed a fair presumption that, as he hadgone there with a lady, they would dine leisurely, and Arnold would haveplenty of time to get back."

  "What about your own dinner?" I asked curiously.

  "Sir," he said pompously, "I have given you a wrong estimate of WilsonBudd Hotchkiss if you think that a question of dinner would even obtrudeitself on his mind at such a time as this."

  He was a frail little man, and to-night he looked pale with heat andover-exertion.

  "Did you have any luncheon?" I asked.

  He was somewhat embarrassed at that.

  "I--really, Mr. Blakeley, the events of the day were so engrossing--"

  "Well," I said, "I'm not going to see you drop on the floor fromexhaustion. Just wait a minute."

  I went back to the pantry, only to be confronted with rows of lockeddoors and empty dishes. Downstairs, in the basement kitchen, however, Ifound two unattractive looking cold chops, some dry bread and a pieceof cake, wrapped in a napkin, and from its surreptitious and generallyhang-dog appearance, destined for the coachman in the stable at therear. Trays there were none--everything but the chairs and tables seemedunder lock and key, and there was neither napkin, knife nor fork to befound.

  The luncheon was not attractive in appearance, but Hotchkiss ate hiscold chops and gnawed at the crusts as though he had been famished,while he told his story.

  "I had been there only a few minutes," he said, with a chop in one handand the cake in the other, "when Bronson rushed out and cut across thestreet. He's a tall man, Mr. Blakeley, and I had had work keeping close.It was a relief when he jumped on a passing car, although being wellbehind, it was a hard run for me to catch him. He had left the lady.

  "Once on the car, we simply rode from one end of the line to the otherand back again. I suppose he was passing the time, for he looked at hiswatch now and then, and when I did once get a look at us face it mademe--er--uncomfortable. He could have crushed me like a fly, sir."

  I had brought Mr. Hotchkiss a glass of wine, and he was looking better.He stopped to finish it, declining with a wave of his hand to have itrefilled, and continued:

  "About nine o'clock or a little later he got off somewhere nearWashington Circle. He went along one of the residence streets there,turned to his left a square or two, and rang a bell. He had beenadmitted when I got there, but I guessed from the appearance of theplace that it was a boarding-house.

  "I waited a few minutes and rang the bell. When a maid answered it, Iasked for Mr. Sullivan. Of course there was no Mr. Sullivan there.

  "I said I was sorry; that the man I was looking for was a new boarder.She was sure there was no such boarder in the house; the only newarrival was a man on the third floor--she thought his name was Stuart.

  "'My friend has a cousin by that name,' I said. 'I'll just go up andsee.'

  "She wanted to show me up, but I said it was unnecessary. So aftertelling me it was the bedroom and sitting-room on the third floor front,I went up.

  "I met a couple of men on the stairs, but neither of them paid anyattention to me. A boarding-house is the easiest place in the world toenter."

  "They're not always so easy to leave," I put in, to his evidentirritation.

  "When I got to the third story, I took out a bunch of keys and postedmyself by a door near the ones the girl had indicated. I could hearvoices in one of the front rooms, but could not understand what theysaid.

  "There was no violent dispute, but a steady hum. Then Bronson jerked thedoor open. If he had stepped into the hall he would have seen me fittinga key into the door before me. But he spoke before he came out.

  "'You're acting like a maniac,' he said. 'You know I can get thosethings some way; I'm not going to threaten you. It isn't necessary. Youknow me.'

  "'It would be no use,' the other man said. 'I tell you, I haven't seenthe notes for ten days.'

  "'But you will,' Bronson said savagely. 'You're standing in your ownway, that's all. If you're holding out expecting me to raise my figure,you're making a mistake. It's my last offer.'

  "'I couldn't take it if it was for a million,' said the man inside theroom. 'I'd do it, I expect, if I could. The best of us have our price.'

  "Bronson slammed the door then, and flung past me down the hall.

  "After a couple of minutes I knocked at the door, and a tall man aboutyour size, Mr. Blakeley, opened it. He was very blond, with a smoothface and blue eyes--what I think you would call a handsome man.

  "'I beg your pardon for disturbing you,' I said. 'Can you tell me whichis Mr. Johnson's room? Mr. Francis Johnson?'

  "'I can not say,' he replied civilly. 'I've only been here a few days.'

  "I thanked him and left, but I had had a good look at him, and I thinkI'd know him readily any place."

  I sat for a few minutes thinking it over. "But what did he mean bysaying he hadn't seen the notes for ten days? And why is Bronson makingthe overtures?"

  "I think he was lying," Hotchkiss reflected. "Bronson hasn't reached hisfigure."

  "It's a big advance, Mr. Hotchkiss, and I appreciate what you have donemore than I can tell you," I said. "And now, if you can locate any ofmy property in this fellow's room, we'll send him up for larceny, and atleast have him where we can get at him. I'm going to Cresson to-morrow,to try to trace him a little from there. But I'll be back in a couple ofdays, and we'll begin to gather in these scattered threads."

  Hotchkiss rubbed his hands together delightedly.

  "That's it," he said. "That's what we want to do, Mr. Blakeley. We'llgather up the threads ourselves; if we let the police in too soon,they'll tangle it up again. I'm not vindictive by nature; but when afellow like Sullivan not only commits a murder, but goes to all sortsof trouble to put the burden of guilt on an innocent man--I say hunt himdown, sir!"

  "You are convinced, of course, that Sullivan did it?"

  "Who else?" He looked over his glasses at me with the air of a man whosemental attitude is unassailable. "Well, listen to this," I said.

  Then I told him at length of my encounter with Bronson in therestaurant, of the bargain proposed by Mrs. Conway, and finally ofMcKnight's new theory. But, although he was impressed, he was far fromconvinced.

&n
bsp; "It's a very vivid piece of imagination," he said drily; "but while itfits the evidence as far as it goes, it doesn't go far enough. How aboutthe stains in lower seven, the dirk, and the wallet? Haven't we even gotmotive in that telegram from Bronson?"

  "Yes," I admitted, "but that bit of chain--"

  "Pooh," he said shortly. "Perhaps, like yourself, Sullivan wore glasseswith a chain. Our not finding them does not prove they did not exist."

  And there I made an error; half confidences are always mistakes. I couldnot tell of the broken chain in Alison West's gold purse.

  It was one o'clock when Hotchkiss finally left. We had by that timearranged a definite course of action--Hotchkiss to search Sullivan'srooms and if possible find evidence to have him held for larceny, whileI went to Cresson.

  Strangely enough, however, when I entered the train the followingmorning, Hotchkiss was already there. He had bought a new note-book, andwas sharpening a fresh pencil.

  "I changed my plans, you see," he said, bustling his newspaper aside forme. "It is no discredit to your intelligence, Mr. Blakeley, but you lackthe professional eye, the analytical mind. You legal gentlemen call aspade a spade, although it may be a shovel."

  "'A primrose by the river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And nothing more!'"

  I quoted as the train pulled out.