In his private life he was the same vigorous, sensible, dominant personality. He never had trouble in his household, because he never allowed it. People called him truculent, but it was their mistake. He merely watched for possible germs of trouble, and sterilized them before they multiplied and grew. His wife and his children and his servants were devoted to him. They understood that he never needed a harsh word or action because he had gone out to meet the first causes which lead to such events.
His physical appearance was in complete harmony with these characteristics. He was tall, robust and athletic, six feet and seven inches in his socks, with the chest development of the Farnese Hercules. A heavy shock of hair, jet black, was all untouched by time. He wore a full beard, square-cut. But, mostly striking feature of all, his complexion was of a strange pallor. This was due, no doubt, to a habit of life most singular in so physically gifted a man. He never took exercise. He ate most sparingly. He slept hardly at all. He hated the open air. He employed three confidential private secretaries, in shifts. They were his shadows. At any moment he might begin dictation.
His clothes were as remarkable as himself. Winter and summer, snow or shine, he wore always the same plain suit of grey. He had gone to his tailor, twenty years before Simon Iff's journey to America, chosen a cloth, and ordered the entire supply. Send me three suits every year, said he. He had arranged similarly for a supply of tall silk hats. For overcoat he wore always a vast Italian mantle. In this he would sleep, as often as not, lying in his long lounge basket chair. He had a small Turkish Bath in his house, and it was his rule to spend an hour daily in 'elimination', as his phrase was. He had never known an hour's ill health. His life was absorbed in his plans and his domestic affairs. All who were really familiar with him loved him as much as they respected him.
The result, curious enough even in this world of paradox, was that he had the name of a tyrant, a brute, a satyr, and a brigand. He was one of those men about whom strange stories gather, without a vestige of foundation. Perhaps the principal reason for this was envy; but he certainly contributed to it by his detestation of words. No man, he held, had any right to intrude on the sacred solitude of another man's self-communing. Permission to speak once given, as by companionship at a meal, he was genial and even loquacious; but his wife would hardly have dared to telephone to the bank if the house had been on fire.
It was this man who was not in his house when Simon Iff came, invited to dinner! Mrs. Barker apologized in the most charming style. "A sudden and inexorable call to Washington, Mr. Iff, at the last moment. Nobody less than the President, I am sure, could have made him break an appointment with you."
Simon expressed his regrets. "But the Signorina will be here, of course," continued Mrs. Barker, prattling. "I don't know how much my husband has told you - and he doesn't know her well, you see. She's really the most wonderful woman alive. Do you know, three years ago every doctor in Europe and America had given me up. I had had eight operations. And then I met Signorina Visconti. In a month I was well, and though it has taken me a long time to regain my full strength, I have never had the slightest return of the trouble. Isn't that wonderful?"
Simon Iff had a prejudice against all spiritual healers and their kin. He thought that bodily ills should be treated by bodily means, mental ills by mental means, moral ills by moral means, and so on. "Suum cuique!" he would exclaim. "Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's!"
Moreover, his experience had taught him that most of such people were quacks - some ignorant, some devilish - and he could never make up his mind which of those two classes was the more dangerous.
But when the little Italian lady arrived, he was instantly disarmed. She had not a milligramme of charlatanism in her whole being. She was rather short and divinely plump, the most exquisite Botticelli type he had ever seen in the flesh; and she might have served Boccacio in his merriest mood. She brimmed with beauty and brilliance. She was a lady to every tingling finger-tip, yet she had initiative without a shadow of suppression. As Simon shook hands with her, he realized that one would have to be very ill indeed not to feel the radiance of her vitality. Her laughing eyes and her full lips seemed to promise the temperament of Venus, but the high, pure, cloudless brow made one think rather of Diana. She implored Simon not to think of her as the celebrated healer, but as the unknown sculptor. She had never exhibited, but it was known that she worked night and day. Iff marvelled at her thumbs, modelled by years of masterful contest with clay and wax. It was clear that she had sublimated her natural force into the creative energy of art. All through dinner she kindled the whole world in the lightnings of her imagination; she flashed from wit to wisdom, and from rougishness to pathos. Was it wonderful that the magician, responsive, stimulated infinitely by the mere contagion of her person, felt that he himself had never appeared to better advantage?
No sooner was dinner at an end than she excused herself; she had to work on the foundation of 'a Bacchus and the Tiger', for which the model was to arrive at seven o'clock the next morning.
"The Bacchus or the Tiger?" asked Iff.
"Bacchus," she said - "Evoe ho! Evoe! The most wonderful boy in the world - one of those wine-stained languid types, like a spoiled girl! Evoe ho!"
She went out. It was as if a flame had swept through the room. It left the others feeling as saints feel when they sink back to the realization that they have enjoyed the Beatific Vision.
"Isn't she perfectly delightful?" cried Mrs. Barker. "Oh, do smoke!" and she took a cigarette to keep Simon's Larranaga in countenance. He waited till the butler had withdrawn before replying. Then he said slowly in a very serious voice: "A friend in need is a friend indeed."
"Oh, yes! Believe me, Mr. Iff, I should have been in my grave these two years but for Fiamella!"
"I meant to-night."
Oh fisherman, oh fisherman! You were perfectly amazing. To hear the pair of you, what a pleasure! What a match! Oh, you ought to marry Fiamella!"
"Marriage has its grave anxieties."
"Don't be depressing!"
"Need I?" A long pause followed the incisive question.
"Mr. Iff, you are right. There is something most terribly wrong. I've been crazy to tell you about it, but I wouldn't spoil your evening if I could help it. But you've seen through me, so I'll talk."
"You've been as plucky as women always are, in the big troubles. That's how I knew it was something ugly. And I could see you wanted to tell me, or I'd have held my peace."
"I told you a lie about Washington. I don't know where my husband is."
Iff nodded.
"I must explain some of his ways, to begin with. He's a very strange man - most strong, most loveable - but with ideas that in a lesser man would be fads. He said he had no time to learn the name of a new secretary, it was enough bother changing, anyhow, so they are always Mr. Morning, Mr. Noon, and Mr. Night, according to whether they are on the eight o'clock, twelve o'clock, or four o'clock shift. Often I myself don't know their names. Well, early this morning Mr. Noon rang up and asked Mr. Morning to stay on till one o'clock, as he had a sick headache, and wanted a little extra time to get over it."
"Forgive me!" interrupted Simon, "but I want to say one word to give you confidence. You are a most wonderful woman. I won't guess whether Mr. Barker was the cause or the effect of that fact!"
"I don't understand."
"May I make a guess? What you have just told me has nothing whatever to do with the story."
"True," said the lady, in surprise. "How did you guess?"
"You had trouble to remember that you ought to tell me."
"Yes."
"And you told me - here's another guess - because you have trained your mind. You thought - rightly, as I judge - that the most apparently irrelevant irregularity might be pertinent on a day during which a great irregularity has occurred?"
She thought a moment. "I believe that was actually my reason. But it's subconscious."
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br /> "Just so."
"You have given me confidence, indeed, indeed!" she cried eagerly. "I know you'll tell me what has happened."
"I will try."
"Mr. Barker always takes lunch at midday precisely, thus avoiding the crush of a later hour. It is Mr. Noon's duty to await him at the door of the private office from five minutes before the hour. They go together to lunch. Mr. Noon orders the meal while my husband goes to wash his hands. As a rule the tavern is empty, save for a stray customer or so, until twelve thirty. To-day there was a rather hilarious party of a dozen salesmen. They have met there weekly at 11.30 for the last three months. It's a kind of informal club."
"You are certainly a miracle for details. I suppose Mr. Morning told you all this?"
"Yes, in a memorandum which he sent to me by Mr. Noon. But I had a second account from Julius Barker. Well, Mr. Morning, assuming his absent colleague's duty - this had happened at odd times before - began to extract the gist of the telegrams in the evening papers, which he would retail to my husband at lunch. He became absorbed in this work. The waiter would of course not bring the lunch until Mr. Barker resumed his seat. Mr. Morning quite forgot the flight of time for awhile; then he awoke to it. His watch said twelve thirty-five. Instantly he thought of an accident - an apoplexy, perhaps. He ran up to the 'men's room'. The attendant, who knew Mr. Barker well, of course, said that he had left, taking his coat and hat, twenty minutes or so before. The secretary returned to his seat, absolutely nonplussed. But, in the absence of orders to go, he decided to stay. He would be off duty at one o'clock; so he would eat his lunch, and report at the bank at that hour. He did so. Mr. Noon was waiting, as in order. Where was Mr. Barker? The vice-president had seen him come into the bank. He remembered the minute, 12.20, as he himself was hurrying out to lunch, uptown, a trifle pressed for time. The cashier had seen Mr. Barker go into the vaults. He came out again a few minutes later, and went directly into the street, turning towards the tavern.
"This was all a little unusual, but perfectly satisfactory, so far. The alarm began at two thirty, when Mr. Berger, of Berger and Watts, called to complete the sale of an important block of real estate. The purchase price was two million, three hundred thousand dollars. At ten minutes past three Mr. Barker was still absent. His cousin and partner, Julius Barker, held hasty conference with the vice-president and Mr. Noon. Julius had full power to sign checks; it would never do to put off Mr. Berger. They decided to lie: 'Mr. Barker has just telephoned. He has been delayed in the traffic, but is on his way now.' Three o'clock; it was impossible to postpone a decision. Julius apologized, signed Mr. Berger's check, and got rid of him. He then gave the deed of sale to the cashier to place in the vaults. The man came back to Julius, and asked him to come down. The vaults had been robbed! Bills of various denominations, and negotiable securities, amounting to over six hundred thousand dollars in all, were missing. Julius simply told him to compile a list of what was gone, and to hold his tongue. He then went straight to Commissioner Teake, of the Police.
"It was not a simple matter. The men on guard had seen Andrew take the securities, as he had a perfect right to do. But it was utterly unreasonable and without motive. He went to Teake merely as to a man experienced in mysteries. Teake could only suggest an enquiry as to whether any of the securities had been negotiated.
"The whole street knew about it! A dozen different men, perfectly unknown, had thrown large blocks of stock into the market. The wildest rumours were afloat. The principal stock attacked had fallen four points. The whole thing was utterly unexpected, and everything fell in sympathy. It was a crazy hour. You know there's trouble brewing in Morocco? Every one jumped to the solution - bad news from Paris!
"Teake dismissed the whole affair with a laugh. 'Your cousin has a little coup in hand,' he said. 'Of course he's keeping out of the way; he doesn't want the reporters at him. And if the news of his disappearance leaks out, it will be another little point in his game.' Julius was perfectly satisfied. He drove out here, and told me the whole story."
"Has Julius any brains?"
"Oh, Mr. Iff, I see you agree with me, and I'm crazy with anxiety. I know Andrew, indeed I do."
"The whole story is utterly absurd. Your husband is the sanest and strongest financier in the city, and we are asked to believe that he's engaged in an absolutely melodramatic gamble."
"I telephoned to Mr. Teake. He said he would come out after dinner. Isn't that his car coming up now? Oh, if it were only Andrew!"
Simon Iff shook his head.
"Your husband would have telephoned." In fact, it was Commissioner Teake who was admitted. "The very man I wanted!" he cried, "you must help me to convince this dear lady that there's nothing amiss! Boys will be boys, ha! ha!"
"I'm sorry. I don't see it in that light at all."
Teake became suddenly sober, like a drunkard in fresh air. "Well, where is the light, then?"
"Mrs. Barker, may I talk this over with Mr. Teake? Take an hour's rest; we may come to some conclusion."
"You'll find me in the parlour," she acquised. "Order anything you need." She went away, paler than a foggy dawn.
"Now, young man," said Iff at once, "you've been making a very great fool of yourself. We must clear this thing up right away; it looks dreadfully bad to me."
"Why shouldn't the old boy have a little flutter on his own?"
"Because he isn't an old boy; he's a middle-aged man. Now tell me, is there any bad news from Paris?"
"Washington says not. They're sure it will blow over."
"Morning, Noon, and Night are here, I hope. Oh yes, she would be sure to arrange that. Let's have them in - no, let's look in on them!"
The butler, summoned, directed them to the billiard-room. The three men were playing pool, listlessly, not talking.
Simon observed them intently. They reminded him, whimsically enough, of the Three Gardeners in Alice in Wonderland. They had the effect of pasteboard; they were as unreal as their names. The personality of Barker had overshadowed them completely, had left them high and dry, jetsam of the ocean of humanity. They had no orders any more; there was therefore no reason why they should do anything whatever! So they played pool without even trying to play it. They all looked up simultaneously; but Night, being technically on duty, advanced first to greet the guests and effected the introductions very simply and suavely.
Physically, they differed a good deal. Morning, slight and dapper, was tall and dark. He was obviously suffering from lack of sleep, and strain on the nerves. Noon was short, remarkably short, but sturdy, with somewhat sparse red hair. He seemed a little elated at being well outside the case. A sick headache is usually its own reward, like virtue, which it resembles strongly in many other ways.
Night was taller even than Morning, a pale blonde type, very handsome, but full of sober energy.
"I want to ask you some questions," began Teake, sitting on the big Chesterfield and crossing his legs. "I may inform you, as a starter, that I've looked up your records, and your movements, and you all seem to be candidates for stained glass windows. So let's get plenty of action in the film! Anything strange in Mr. Barker's behaviour of late?"
Morning shook his head. Noon pursed his lips tightly. Night smiled.
"Come across!"
"Well," volunteered Night, "I think there may be a little shershy lafamm."*
"I don't think there's anything in that," said Noon.
Shielding his employer, reflected Teake; and concentrated his energies on Night. This youth was however quite unable to contribute anything definite; he became more and more confused as he went on; in the end he amounted to an 'impression.'
Teake now went through the events of the day with each man in turn. Their accounts were most unsatisfactorily satisfactory. The enquiry did not elicit a single new fact, or cast doubt upon a single old one.
Morning's movements were known at the bank; Noon was still in bed at twelve thirty, according to his wife, the landlady who called for the re
nt, and the servant who cleaned the apartment, so that he must have gone straight to the bank in a taxi, as in fact he did, by the driver's story. Night had also slept till one o'clock, as was his custom, and then dined at his boarding-house.
Teake got up, disgruntled. "May as well go and sample that port," he growled. "Ever see such a rotten case? Not a thing to take hold of." He lurched off, with Simon Iff in his wake.
"I rather thought those young men were deliciously illuminating - very beacons in our darkness - but alas! they blaze above a dangerous lee shore."
"Well, I'll drink the port, and you'll tell me the story."
The good Commissioner was for the first time a little piqued.
"You're angry with yourself, not with me," said Iff, answering his tone rather than his words, "just as Mr. Night, being himself a woman-fancier, thought he saw just that trait in his hero."
"O ho! so that's the way the cat jumps!"
"But Noon, who has some real brains, of a sort, tried to give, by denying it, the same impression as Night by affirming it."
"That's so."
"Had Barker any enemies?"
"I think not. Every one who doesn't know him swears he hates him; but in his own circle he is popular."
Teake suddenly interrupted himself.
"Did you say 'has' or 'had'?" he added, with curious violence.
"It is possibly not the correct American usage, but I said 'had'!"
"You mean he's dead?"
"I'd risk a dollar on it."
"Why?"
"Because he's not the type of man to go insane."
The Complete Simon Iff Page 20