The Red Ledger

by Frank L. Packard

  "Yes," said Charlebois sharply, as though his veracity were being assailed and he were taking umbrage at it. "Yes, sir; a debt! Do you remember, when you kept that general store, that you gave a meal and a night's lodging to a ragged, pitiful wretch who came to you one night? Do you remember that you sent him away the next morning with a pair of shoes, a cheery smile, and a grip of the hand that gave him new courage and new heart? Well, sir, I am that poor devil."

  "A pair of shoes!" The words came weakly from Gordon. His eyes fell on the certificate in his hand, and he held it suddenly closer to him, staring at it in amazement. "It's—it's transferred to me!" he faltered. His eyes filled suddenly with tears, and he stretched out his hands to Charlebois. "I don't understand it," he said huskily. "I don't pretend to understand it—a pair of shoes! What can I say? I do not understand it, but God bless you over and over again, and——"

  "No! No-no-no!" cried the strange little old gentleman, quite panic-stricken now. "No! I—I cannot have thanks. Here, Stranway, my boy, here!" He jerked Gordon's revolver out from his pocket and pushed it into Stranway's hand. "Here, keep him here, even if you have to use this, until I—until I am gone"—and with his short, quick little steps Henri Raoul Charlebois rushed incontinently from the room.

  For a moment, as Gordon leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, Stranway did not move; then he laid the revolver quietly down on the desk, and walked slowly toward the door. He was conscious that somehow his month in Dominic Court had, in the last half hour, crystallised into something of fuller, deeper, more worth-while significance than he had known before. He stepped into the hall, closed the door softly behind him—and a smile, one now of a new and strange affection, lighted up his face.

  Down the corridor, the little old gentleman was punching frantically at every elevator bell within reach.

  Chapter VII.

  A Matter of Identity

  Table of Contents

  Who was the Orchid?

  Stranway crunched the end of his cigarette abstractedly in the ash tray on the café table, as he stared through the window at the rather shabby street without. Who was she? Where was she? It was almost a month now since he had found her waiting for him in his car on the night when, with Steener as his accomplice, he had "robbed" Poindexter's safe, and during that time there had been no sign of her.

  Perhaps it was the very mystery surrounding her that intrigued and plagued him, and, if he were quite honest with himself, obliged him to admit that she was less and less out of his thoughts as the days went by. Who was she? Where was she? There had been a constant whirl of events, and many strange, and, on occasions, hazardous incidents which meanwhile had centred around that bizarre Red Room in 2½ Dominic Court, and he had seen "active service" almost a score of times—but never the Orchid. Why? He shook his head. Charlebois on that score was as uncommunicative as ever. All that he, Stranway, had to go on was the memory of the only two occasions on which he had seen her, and from his standpoint those meetings had not been at all satisfactory. Very far from it, indeed! He smiled suddenly—half grimly, half whimsically. His mind was fully made up that the same sort of thing would not happen again! The next time, no matter what the circumstances, he was going to know a lot more about a certain brown-eyed and tantalising young woman, who of late had been so woefully disturbing his peace of mind!

  Next time! When would that be? He had been expecting it, hoping for it every day since that last time—and it had never come.

  "Oh, damn it," murmured Stranway fervently to himself, "what's the use!"

  He lighted another cigarette, and, determined to divert his thoughts, tried to rivet his attention on the scene outside the window. Pushcarts lined the curb everywhere, some piled high with fruit, and some with vegetables, and some with fish, and some with merchandise too miscellaneous for inventory; and, while the hawkers screamed their wares and buyers haggled over their purchases, the scantily clad children, playing in the gutters, scrambled under the pushcarts for any pickings that might fall from the heaped-up treasures above. And always a motley crowd moved slowly on the sidewalk—composed for the most part of swarthy-faced men who wore ear-rings, and old women who wore dark shawls, and young women who went to the extreme in vivid colours that clashed violently. It was one of the "foreign sections" of the city. Usually he found it intensely interesting; there had been occasions even when he had sat for an hour at a stretch at this same table in Talimini's Café absorbed in exactly the same scene that was being enacted out there now. But to-night, somehow, it did not interest him at all.

  He turned a little irritably in his chair, and his eyes strayed around the interior of the café itself. Talimini's was Bohemian in the extreme. It was never sombre; and Talimini, who, according to his own story, had once been under-chef to the reigning house of Italy, substantiated his story to such a practical degree, at least, that the dinner he served was always rewarded with crowded tables.

  Just south of Washington Square, the café was not far from Dominic Court, and, once discovered by Stranway weeks ago, had since then become a favourite dining place of his. To-night was in no way different from any other night—but to-night, the gaiety and laughter, the chatter, often in strange tongues, that arose from the innumerable small tables around him, the really excellent violin that formed the backbone of the orchestra, and, indeed, the whole ensemble of the place with its air of vivacity and good-humour, which usually he very thoroughly enjoyed, now seemed only to bore and weary him.

  "What the devil is the matter with me?" he muttered savagely.

  He took out his watch—and, frowning suddenly in surprise, stared at it for an instant before returning it to his pocket. The time, after all, must have gone more quickly than he had imagined, for though he had entered the café well ahead of the hour appointed by Charlebois, it was now five minutes past that hour.

  It was rather strange! Charlebois was late. He had never known such a thing to happen before. The little old gentleman of Dominic Court was the soul of punctuality—prided himself upon it, indeed; and even drastically insisted upon it from others.

  Stranway lighted another cigarette, and his eyes fastened now on the street entrance across the intervening tables. He was quite sure Charlebois had not come in, for, though the café was already pretty well crowded, Charlebois knew that he, Stranway, always reserved the same table, or at least one of the group that was always served by the same waiter, and would have come directly to him. There could not be any mistake about the message—it was quite clear, quite plain. It had been telephoned from Dominic Court to an office downtown which he, Stranway, was to visit during the course of the afternoon, and on his arrival there the message had been transmitted to him. He repeated it mentally now: "Six-thirty at Talimini's—Charlebois will meet you there for dinner. Important." There could hardly have been any mistake about the hour!

  He kept his eyes steadily on the doorway now, but as the minutes passed and still Charlebois did not appear, Stranway found himself becoming more and more disquieted and uneasy. Ordinarily, the fact that a man was a few minutes late in keeping an appointment was a matter of no consequence whatever; it was trivial even, something to be passed off with a smiling excuse and apology—but not so in the case of Henri Raoul Charlebois. Charlebois was never late; and he, Stranway, in his two months of close intimacy with the little old gentleman of Dominic Court, was only too keenly alive to the fact that always and ever, lurking just around the corner, danger, sometimes subtle, sometimes clumsy, but always brutal, vicious and determined, stalked at Charlebois' heels, as those whose names were on the debit side of the Red Ledger struck back in an effort to free themselves from the net that was being drawn around them. He had good reason to be anxious. This was not like Charlebois at all. Something must have happened to the little old gentleman, for, otherwise, if Charlebois had been merely detained by some ordinary cause, he would almost certainly have sent a message to the café.

  Stranway glanced at his watch again. It w
as ten minutes past the hour now. What would he better do? He did not like the situation at all. Talimini's telephone was rather public, and if anything were wrong, and he himself were being watched, it would be—— Ah! Stranway relaxed in his chair with a smile of relief. There were a number of tables between himself and the door, and a group of people were now seating themselves around several of these, so that his view for the moment was somewhat obscured; but here, surely, was Charlebois at last—that little old gentleman who had just entered, and who was hidden now for an instant by the laughing crowd that seemed unable to decide among themselves who their individual table mates were to be, was Charlebois, wasn't it? And so, after all, his uneasiness had been groundless. Well, thank the Lord, it had! Charlebois, that strange, lovable, complex, yet intensely human character, had found a large place in his, Stranway's, heart, and the relationship between them had already become——

  With a warning cry that mingled despair and fury Stranway was on his feet—too late. Stilling the laughter, the talk, the boisterous gaiety of the place for a moment into shocked and terrified silence, save only for that one cry from Stranway, came the roar of a revolver shot, another and another, as a man at the table nearest the door fired three times in rapid succession at the little old gentleman—and then, leaping for the door, dashed through it to the street.

  Chairs and their occupants went down before Stranway's frantic rush. Without ceremony, heedless of everything, he forced his way between tables, between the groups seated in his path, ruthlessly brushing them aside. It had come at last—mocking with ghastly derision, as it were, the swift, amazing master-moves with which the little old gentleman of Dominic Court had hitherto fenced and turned aside and frustrated all previous attempts upon his life.

  The café was in a wild, panic-stricken furore now; men shouted, women screamed; waiters and those nearer the scene of the tragedy than Stranway packed forward ahead of him in a dense ring around the form on the floor. Passion, fury, grief stabbed at him, making of him temporarily a madman—and like a madman he fought his way through the jam.

  He burst through the circle, dropped on his knees beside the motionless, outstretched figure—and stared wildly into the white, upturned face. Relief, incredible, so overpowering as almost for the instant to leave him weak and helpless, swept upon him—it was not Charlebois. There was a resemblance, much of it, enough of it, owing to the restricted view and the distance across the room, to have deceived even him when he had seen the other enter; but then, of course, he had been expecting Charlebois, and the little old gentleman's street clothes were rarely twice alike. The man was of about the same age, the same build as Charlebois; and, like Charlebois, had blue eyes and silvery hair—but it was not Charlebois.

  But Stranway was in action now, and, on his feet again in an instant, he sprang through the door and out into the street. The man who had fired the shots could not have got very far away as yet, and Stranway was morally certain he could identify the other again if he but got a glimpse of him—the man was slim, tall, fair-haired, and was wearing a light-grey suit.

  Five minutes' search, however, from one end of the block to the other resulted in—nothing. Talimini's, the locality, was a well-chosen spot! The hawkers, the heterogeneous mass of people and pushcarts that crowded the pavements and the curbs, had swallowed the man up effectually.

  Stranway returned to the café, and elbowed his way inside through the crowd that had collected at the door. Some degree of order had been restored, but the place still seethed with commotion and excitement. A man, a doctor evidently from his professional actions, probably one who had been among the guests, was on his knees beside the man who had been shot. A little group, in which everyone talked at once, eagerly recounted what had happened to a police officer. The doctor looked up and shook his head gravely in response to an inquiry from the policeman.

  "Can't tell till we get him to the hospital," he said. "He has a chance—a bare chance, I should say."

  Someone pressed Stranway's elbow with a light but significant touch.

  "I am here, my boy," said a quiet voice in his ear.

  It was the voice and the sharp, steel-blue eyes of Henri Raoul Charlebois that Stranway recognised—nothing else proclaimed the other's identity. The neatly dressed gentleman beside him, brown-haired, moustached, bearded, marvellous in his make-up, might readily have passed for a well-preserved man of forty.

  Before Stranway could respond, the officer spoke again, raising his voice and waving his hand toward the wounded man:

  "Anybody here come in with this gentleman, or know who he is?"

  There was no answer, and Stranway leaned close to Charlebois.

  "I think we would better get out of here," he said in a low tone. "I'll go and get my hat."

  Charlebois agreeing with a slight nod, Stranway made his way back to his table.

  "Emile," he said to the man who regularly waited upon him, "get my hat for me as quickly as you can, please."

  "Monsieur will not dine here, then, to-night?" asked the man.

  "No," Stranway replied. "Not to-night. Hurry, Emile."

  The man was back in a moment, and, as he politely extended the hat, took from his pocket an envelope which he also handed to Stranway.

  "What's this?" demanded Stranway.

  "I do not know." Emile smiled and lifted his shoulders. "It was left by a gentleman this afternoon, who said you would dine here to-night, and that I was to give it to you—but not until you were going away."

  "Not until I was going away!" echoed Stranway in astonishment.

  "Yes," said Emile. "That is what he said. It is perhaps a joke, I do not know—I am innocent of it—monsieur knows I would not take liberties."

  Stranway tore the envelope open, and as he read the words that were scrawled on the sheet of paper he had found therein, his lips straightened into a grim line. He put the note back into the envelope, and the envelope into his pocket.

  "All right," he said unconcernedly, as he slipped a coin into the waiter's hand. "Good-night, Emile."

  Chapter VIII.

  The Countermove

  Table of Contents

  They were lifting the wounded man into an ambulance, as Stranway joined Charlebois again and both stepped out to the street—but it was not until they had reached the corner of the block and had turned north, heading for Washington Square, that Stranway spoke.

  "My God, it was you they meant to kill!" he said hoarsely.

  "Yes, my boy," said Charlebois soberly. "I am afraid it was."

  "I received a telephone message while I was at Klinehart & Heager's office that purported to come from Dominic Court"—the words came fast from Stranway—"saying that you would meet me for dinner at Talimini's at six-thirty."

  "A district messenger boy delivered the same message from you to me at the Court an hour ago," said Charlebois quietly.

  Stranway jerked the note Emile had given him from his pocket.

  "Listen to this!" he exclaimed passionately. "It was left at the café this afternoon—to be given to me when I went away. That means when I had seen the murder done. Listen! This is what it says: 'Is this warning enough for you not to meddle with things that do not concern you, or are you—next?'" Stranway crushed the note in his hand and jabbed it back into his pocket. "The hell-hounds!" he burst out fiercely. "It's unbelievable! The message you got that was signed by me was neither more nor less than an invitation to your own death—the one I got by telephone an invitation to see you done away with. It failed—but it has cost a life. I saw it in that poor chap's face—he'll never live the night out. I——"

  Stranway's voice choked with anger, and a clenched hand swept his eyes.

  "My boy," said the little old gentleman softly, "calm yourself. It is quite true, I think, that we are dealing with one of the most cold-blooded and ingenious scoundrels I have ever known, and I have known many—but the game is not yet played out."

  "No," rasped Stranway bluntly; "but it would have been
, except for the chance that you were a little late and in disguise."

  A quizzical light was in the steel-blue eyes as Charlebois turned his head toward Stranway.

  "Chance," he said gently, "is a word of many meanings: the toying with the responsibilities of life; the whine and complaint of the fallen weak, the noisy, empty boast of those upon whom fortune has smiled through no efforts of their own. But to us, who face danger daily, hourly, there is no such word as chance."

  For a moment Stranway stared searchingly into Charlebois' face.

  "You—-you knew?" he gasped.

  "Yes," said Charlebois, with his grave, contained smile. "I knew that my life was to be attempted—but not that another man would be mistaken for me."

  Stranway's hands were clenched at his sides. He made no answer.

  They had reached Washington Square and Charlebois now headed toward Broadway.

  "I'm going to the hospital," said the little old gentleman almost absently. "Poor fellow! Innocently enough perhaps, but in a way through me, I fear, he has come to his death." His face hardened suddenly, and he reverted abruptly to his former remark. "I said I knew that this attempt was to be made upon my life, but I must qualify that somewhat. Shortly after I received the message supposed to be from you, I was warned to be careful to-night. The warning came from one of our men—Creeler—who for over a year now has been detailed to the Stolman case."

  "Stolman?" Stranway repeated the word slowly. "I know the name," he said. "And I have seen the man—you pointed him out to me one day. It is a debit entry in the Red Ledger; but I have never had anything to do with the case itself, you know."

  "We will not take the time to go into that now, for there is work for you to do," said Charlebois quickly; "and it is a long story, and not a pleasant one. Let us confine ourselves for the present to the immediate issues. Creeler, to a certain extent, has become an intimate of Stolman—though not so fully in Stolman's confidence as I would wish. Creeler telephoned me that, from words and hints dropped by Stolman, he was sure Stolman had planned a trap that would get rid of me to-night; but what that trap was he did not know and had not been able to find out." The little old gentleman flung out his arms with a curious, deprecating gesture. "And so it was not 'chance,' you see, my boy. I was in Talimini's when you arrived. Flint was with me, also in disguise; and Flint, even ahead of you, was out of the café and after the man who fired the shot—I think we can safely leave that end of the matter in Flint's hands."