The first thing to do was to acquaint Charlebois with the fact that he had arrived. Stranway strolled, then, nonchalantly up the centre of the room and back again, as though in search of some one—carefully ignoring, however, by both look and manner the corner table. By the door again, he shot a quick glance at the table; and then, turning, he went directly out of the Rathskeller, crossed the street and took up his position, waiting in the shadow of a doorway. Charlebois had seen him. The little old gentleman and his companion had risen from their table, and were preparing to leave as he, Stranway, had stepped out of the café.
Presently the two men came out and walked down the street. Stranway paralleled them on the other side—then, as they mounted the steps of the first elevated station and he heard the rumble of a downtown train approaching, he hurried across the street and followed them up the stairs. As they entered a car, Stranway slipped through the gate at the opposite end of the same car, and took his place on the platform. The two men got off at Brooklyn Bridge, Stranway trailing them. From here, walking again, and to Stranway's constantly increasing bewilderment and wonder at their ultimate destination, they struck down the side streets, heading east—and then, at the end of ten minutes, enlightenment came to him suddenly. The two men had turned abruptly riverward, and now came out upon the Clivedale & Hearn Company's dock, where Charlebois' large ocean-going yacht was always berthed when in port. She lay there now, a thing of beauty even in the darkness, her portholes flashing light, the decks flooded with a soft white glow, the upper works rising in shadowy outline, the trim masts towering above until tops and rigging, blending into blackness, lost themselves in the night.
A grim smile played on Stranway's lips as he watched the two men go aboard. It was plain enough now—the reason why he was to bring the papers, the meaning of it all. Charlebois would play out the last act of the tragedy free from interference aboard his own yacht. "I pay all—at maturity," Charlebois was wont to say. Stranway hurried forward. At maturity! That time, then, had come!
Both men had disappeared through the saloon companionway as Stranway reached the gangway. Known, naturally, to every officer and member of the crew, he stepped to the yacht's deck unchallenged. A moment later the yacht cast off, and, forging out into the river, began slowly to gather way.
Charlebois would, of course, know that he, Stranway, was aboard, and would send for him undoubtedly when it best suited the little old gentleman's purpose; so Stranway made his way forward and mounted the bridge to await a summons. Kendall, the yacht's commander, greeted him with a cordial handshake and a brief word, and left him to his own devices—the navigation of the East River at any hour of the day or night demanded an undivided attention.
Stranway walked to the end of the bridge and leaned on the rail, watching the scene around him—the soft glow, as a background, over both Manhattan and Brooklyn; the nearer lights, that took on individual form; the spider web of steel cables that made the massive bridges, wavering in the darkness overhead, as the yacht passed beneath them; the dark, wall-like fringe of silent factories and warehouses at the water's edge; and, on the river itself, about him, up and down, in every direction, the myriad, twinkling lights, like so many fireflies, from passing tugs and barges, from bustling ferries and river craft of every description. It was like a kaleidoscopic picture, ever changing, bringing some new charm and interest every instant.
And then, gradually, the river traffic began to thin out; but it was not until Hell Gate was safely negotiated that Captain Kendall, evidently more at his leisure now with the clearer sweep of the Sound before him, lighted a cigar, spoke a few words to the quartermaster at the wheel, and strolled toward Stranway's end of the bridge.
Stranway turned to meet the other. There was more than one question that he wanted to ask—and first of all what their destination was. But before he could speak there came the summons he had been expecting every moment since the yacht had left New York.
"Beg pardon, Captain Kendall; but is Mr. Stranway on the bridge?" a voice hailed from the deck.
"I'm here," said Stranway quickly, anticipating the commander's answer, and already halfway to the deck as he spoke.
"Thank you, sir," said the man, a steward, as Stranway joined him. "Mr. Charlebois would like to see you, sir, in the main saloon."
"Very well," Stranway replied.
He hurried aft, descended the companionway, and, reaching the closed door of the saloon, stood there for a moment hesitantly. A feeling that somehow all was not well, that Charlebois for once was playing too confidently with edged tools, had come suddenly upon him. This Dr. Meers was not only a desperate character, but he obviously belonged to that type of criminal which was the most dangerous of all—highly educated, with the trained mind of a student, and full of resource, the man had given evidence of possessing an ingenuity that was Satanic. Then Stranway smiled a little whimsically to himself. He had yet to see a move made, a game played by Charlebois in which the little old gentleman was not at every stage of it the master. What he, Stranway, knew of Dr. Meers, Charlebois knew, too—and much more besides.
He rapped sharply at the door, and entered. A long table with revolving chairs ran up the centre of the saloon. At the head of this table at the far end of the saloon, and with his back to a little alleyway that ran still farther forward to give access to the staterooms beyond, the little old gentleman sat crouched forward in his chair. Pacing backward and forward across the lower end of the table by the entrance was Dr. Hadley Meers. The saloon itself was but dimly lighted. All this Stranway caught in a single glance as he closed the door and halted with his back to it.
It was Dr. Meers who spoke first—sharply, imperatively:
"You are Mr. Stranway?"
"Yes," said Stranway quietly.
"You have brought certain papers with you?"
Stranway shot a quick look, seeking his clue, toward the head of the table. The little old gentleman gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head.
"I have," acknowledged Stranway.
"Then kindly let me have them," requested the doctor, extending his hand.
Again Stranway glanced up the room, and again he caught the affirmative gesture. And then without hesitation he took the papers from his pocket and handed them to Dr. Meers. Unquestioning obedience—Charlebois had exacted that oath from him long ago when he had first joined the organisation—and he gave it now. But, bewildered and nonplussed though he was at this act that delivered over to the actual murderer himself the evidence that would have brought the merited retribution of a death sentence, Stranway's face showed no emotion as he watched Meers seat himself and begin to examine the papers.
The man appeared absolutely at his ease, confident, wholly in control of the situation. After a few minutes over the reports, he looked up at the single figure seated at the tablehead, and a sardonic smile curled his thin lips.
"Very exhaustive, very—I compliment you!" he sneered.
Stranway, too, looked up, expecting a reply—and, his eyes sweeping past the little old gentleman, he barely repressed a sudden, startled exclamation. Meers had swung around in his seat again, so that, as well as the little old gentleman, he now had his back to the alleyway, and, having torn open the envelope containing Minter's statement, was scanning the damning testimony rapidly. A moment before the alleyway had been empty—but now the Orchid stood there in the doorway, and Stranway saw that her great, dark eyes, full of some strange significance, were fixed intently upon him.
"Ah!" The exclamation, half snarl of rage, half cry of triumph, burst suddenly from Meers' lips—and then he began to tear the foolscap sheets with quick, vicious jerks of his fingers into little shreds. "You, sir"—the words came with fierce abruptness, and his arm shot out pointing at Stranway—"you, sir; do you know what this document contained?"
Stranway's eyes were still on the Orchid, and now at the question she raised her fingers instantly to her lips, shaking her head; then, with a hurried gesture toward the little ol
d gentleman, as though beckoning Stranway to approach the latter, she drew back—and was gone.
A fraction of a second the pantomime had taken—no more—and Stranway's reply came without apparent pause or delay.
"I am not in the habit of opening sealed envelopes that do not belong to me, sir," he said sharply, with well-simulated indignation in his tones.
Meers' response was a grunt—but a grunt, evidently, of satisfaction.
The Orchid's gesture toward Charlebois—what had it meant? Stranway looked from one man to the other, striving to intercept some signal from the little old gentleman; and then, dazing him with its possibilities, a hint of her meaning came to him. He turned to Dr. Meers.
"If nothing more is required of me," he said with a disarming smile, "I have a message to deliver to Mr. Charlebois, and then I will leave you two gentlemen to yourselves."
As he spoke, he stepped forward past Meers in the direction of the little old gentleman. Meers rose hastily from his seat, and grasped Stranway's arm—but not before Stranway had covered half the distance.
"Your message, I am afraid," Meers said brusquely, "will have to wait. Mr. Charlebois and myself are engaged on a very important matter. You may leave us—now! I am quite sure that Mr. Charlebois agrees with me."
Stranway glanced swiftly at the little old gentleman, and received the same nod of assent as before. But now, though his brain was suddenly in turmoil and the blood was pounding fiercely through his veins, not a muscle of Stranway's face moved.
"Very good," he said calmly—and, walking quietly to the door, left the saloon.
But once outside, his mask of composure vanished, and he rushed for the deck. Some one was impersonating Charlebois! The man at the head of the table was no more Charlebois than the President of the United States! He, Stranway, had got close enough to the other before Meers had stopped him, to assure himself of that. At a little distance, in the dim light, the impersonation was clever, the deception perfect, and that was why, presumably, he was neither to approach nor speak to Charlebois—but those were the instructions that had come from the Orchid herself, the instructions she had telephoned him! What did it mean? What contradictory, unaccountable part was she playing? Was she being used by Meers—in Meers' power? If so, where was the real Charlebois? And the evidence against Meers was gone now—destroyed! The very daring, the almost incredible nerve displayed by Meers in this move of his had brought success—if obtaining possession of that paper, which meant life or death to the man, was success. But how did Meers know that the paper had ever existed? How did Meers know that it had been in Dominic Court? And Minter—where was Minter now? And what was to follow? Who was this man who was playing the role of Charlebois—was it Loud, the nephew, the accomplice of Meers?
Stranway shook his head grimly. He could not answer any of these questions; but, at least, Meers and this other man were aboard here now among Charlebois' men, and in his, Stranway's, power. Whatever else happened, they would not escape; and before he was through with them Meers would answer to him for Charlebois! He ran swiftly forward and called Captain Kendall from the bridge.
"Kendall, we have been tricked!" he said tensely, as the yacht's commander joined him on deck by the rail. "There's foul play somewhere! The man in the cabin is not Charlebois!"
"What's that!" exclaimed the captain sharply. "Not Charlebois! What do you mean? Are you crazy?"
"No," said Stranway. "I wish to Heaven I were—in this particular instance! It's a case of more or less clever impersonation. The man is not Charlebois."
"He isn't, eh? Well then, God help him! We'll get some of the hands, and——"
"No—wait!" interposed Stranway. "First of all, where are we bound for?"
Captain Kendall pointed ahead through the darkness.
"A bit of an island out there that we're close aboard of now," he answered. "There's a summer sanatorium of some sort on it."
"I thought so!" Stranway nodded quickly. "Now, who gave you orders to expect Charlebois and a friend aboard, and who gave you directions where to——"
"I did!" The answer came in a low voice from behind them.
Both men whirled around. It was the Orchid.
Instantly, impulsively, Stranway stepped toward her—and suddenly found his voice out of control.
"I—you," he stammered, "I——"
She put out a hand arrestingly, and for a moment it lay upon his sleeve.
"Let me speak!" she said breathlessly. "And please do not interrupt. There are things that you both must know, and I dare not stay here more than a minute or so. As part of the present plan, I was an inmate of Dr. Meers' sanatorium some time ago. I won his confidence. He believes that I have turned against Charlebois because I have been well paid by him to do it, and——"
"But"—Stranway, though his eyes were eagerly drinking in her every feature, had somewhat regained his composure—"how did he know you had anything to do with Charlebois?"
"Please—oh, please, do not interrupt," she pleaded earnestly. "I must give you Charlebois' orders, and every second is priceless. If I am missed for even an instant it will be fatal. Everything that has happened has been planned by Charlebois, but I could warn neither of you of the true state of affairs over the phone, and indeed I"—she flashed a sudden, wry little smile at Stranway—"even had to be abrupt with Mr. Stranway. Dr. Meers is a very suspicious man, and he was at my elbow when I telephoned you both. But I did warn you a few minutes ago, Mr. Stranway, to deny all knowledge of that paper, for Dr. Meers must be made to think that he is destroying all clues behind him. You will understand that later. The man who is impersonating Charlebois is no more than a vaudeville impersonator paid to play the part—he knows nothing. Dr. Meers will land alone at the island. I am to stay aboard as a protector to the pseudo-Charlebois—to prevent the deception from being discovered! You, Mr. Stranway, are to follow Dr. Meers. You are to take a couple of men with you, but you are not to act until the last moment. Let Dr. Meers play out his game, let him go as far as possible before you interfere. He will enter the sanatorium by the front door—you must go around to the back one, which you will find open. This gives directly on the diet kitchen. Leading from the diet kitchen, through a swinging door, is a short hall that opens on the main ward. The entrance end of the hall to the ward is closed only by a screen such as is used to surround a patient's bed—after that your own judgment must guide you. Tell me quickly now, have you understood? I have already been too long away—everything depends on preventing the slightest suspicion from arising in Dr. Meers' mind."
"Yes; I understand," Stranway answered. "But you—-"
She was gone—running swiftly back along the deck.
For an instant Stranway stood staring after the little retreating figure, but he made no effort to follow her. He was neither startled nor surprised at her abrupt departure; he was conscious, more than of anything else, of a feeling that there had come to be something inevitable, as it were, in the futile termination of these meetings between them—something that always, it seemed, must override and utterly ignore the personal equation. To-night, now, for instance—to have detained her, to have attempted it even, would not only have placed Charlebois' plans in jeopardy, but might very easily have put the Orchid herself in peril. He could no longer see her now along the deck, and, without comment, he turned to face Captain Kendall again.
The two men looked at each other grimly for a moment.
"This man Meers is a—devil—eh?" growled the yacht's commander, breaking the silence.
"From what I know of him, he is an inhuman fiend," Stranway replied, in a low, hard voice. "But I take it from what she said, or rather left unsaid, that Charlebois is safe, probably on the island, and is waiting there to stop Meers' deviltries once for all."
"I'd like to go with you, by George!" the captain rapped out suddenly. "But, of course, I can't! I'll see that you get two good men, though. We're pretty near in now. I'll have to attend to the landing." He wheeled, and bega
n to mount the bridge ladder—and stopped. "Are you armed?" he demanded gruffly.
"I am always armed," Stranway answered quietly.
Chapter XVII.
As Per Account Rendered
Table of Contents
The next fifteen minutes passed for Stranway in a state of restless impatience. He knew much; but also knew little. Question after question crowded upon him as before. He could not answer them—nor would the pieces of the puzzle fit together in any way. And suicide—again and again, that single gruesome word, the entry in the Red Ledger, obtruded itself.
A steward came along the deck, and, hailing the bridge, delivered a message to the captain. The orders from the "saloon" were that no one was to be allowed ashore apart from Mr. Charlebois' guest, and that the yacht was to await that gentleman's return. They were docking at the end of what was evidently the private pier belonging to the sanatorium, as Captain Kendall briefly acknowledged the instructions.
A moment later, as the yacht was made fast, Dr. Hadley Meers appeared from the companionway, glanced up the deck to where, a few yards away, Stranway, leaning on the rail, was nonchalantly smoking a cigarette, then stepped across the gangway, and walked briskly shoreward along the wharf. A moment later again, as the doctor's form was lost in the darkness, the cigarette dropped from Stranway's hand with a little hiss into the water, two men came quietly to Stranway's side, and the three, leaving the yacht, followed Meers.
The wharf was perhaps a hundred feet in length, and, reaching the shore, Stranway followed a driveway that led in through a thick grove of trees, until presently, some fifty yards away, as the driveway made a sharp turn, two or three lights, twinkling from the windows of what was obviously the sanatorium, came suddenly into view.
The Red Ledger Page 13