The Red Ledger

by Frank L. Packard

  "I don't understand," said Stranway frowning.

  "Nor did I—until now," Charlebois rejoined whimsically. "And yet it is very simple. You will remember that I sent Lacroix to France six months ago. Krinler has a confederate there, ostensibly a manufacturers' agent, who is in close touch with the American buyers who go over to France, and is thus frequently able to find out not only the description of the goods they order, but—what is equally vital to Krinler—the shipping instructions as well, such as date, and the line and name of steamer on which the goods are to be forwarded. Whenever this information was obtainable, Krinler's confederate would place a small rush order for identically the same quality of silk to be shipped immediately to Krinler in New York, advising Krinler of the shipping instructions given for the goods purchased by the American buyer. You can see readily enough what followed. Krinler would pay freight and duty on his own shipment, which in nearly every case would arrive prior to the other, take the goods to his store—and steal the other shipment on arrival. This he could then sell openly and with impunity. He had invoices and papers covering every detail of his own bona fide transaction that accounted beyond question for his being in possession of similar goods to those stolen—and a business record of fourteen years behind him to back that up! How he gets the stolen goods to his store and still preserves his incognito amongst those on the East Side who help him, is what to-night must solve. Occasionally, as I have told you, he would steal his own shipment to safeguard himself from suspicion; and even this had its profitable side—he saved the duty. He had only to place a duplicate order for the supposedly stolen goods, and, when that arrived, produce the stolen silk and sell it with the other! Do you understand, my boy?"

  With a low whistle, Stranway rose to his feet, walked to the window and stared out for a moment through the darkness into the little courtyard—then he turned and faced Charlebois soberly.

  "You are right!" he said. "He is clever—damnably clever! And yet—it may be stupidity on my part, but I cannot see how he succeeded in the actual thefts—the docks, for instance! If they were watched——"

  "It is just there that the difficulty has come in," Charlebois interposed quickly. "Which dock? The stolen goods might be shipped from Marseilles, Havre, Cherbourg, or via Antwerp, or Hamburg, or London, or Southampton, or a half dozen other ports. They rarely arrived here twice by the same line—rarely were stolen a second time from the same dock! To watch every dock in New York on both sides of the river would require a veritable army of police. It was an impossible task, and——" He broke off suddenly, stepped quickly to the desk as the telephone rang, and lifted the receiver to his ear. "Yes? Hello! Hello!" he said. "What is it?"

  For a moment the little old gentleman listened without a word, while Stranway watched a tense expression settling on the other's face; then with a crisp: "Very good—at once!" Charlebois replaced the receiver on the hook and turned briskly to Stranway.

  "That was Flint," he said rapidly. "Krinler, or in this instance 'Sullivan,' is already at the rendezvous for the evening—a saloon of his on the Bowery that operates under the guise of a restaurant. I will give you the address, and a carefully detailed description of Krinler that will enable you to recognise him in his underworld character. Here is the plan. You are to make up as a mechanic, not too clean—and get down there as soon as possible. You are expected. Go in by the alleyway—there is a back door there. Your name is Fallon. You are supposed to be employed by one of the Harlem River boat clubs, the Wayagamack, to look after their motor launches."

  "Yes," said Stranway quietly. "Fallon—Wayagamack—go on."

  Charlebois' steel-blue eyes grew troubled.

  "I am afraid that I am practically asking you to take your life in your hands, my boy," he said gruffly, in an effort to hide a sudden rush of emotion; "but, as I have already said, I see no other way. From the outset in this case I have striven to reach Krinler through one of his East Side accomplices. Flint has finally succeeded in bribing the man who runs Krinler's motor boat on these nefarious expeditions—a man named Whitie Wilkes. Wilkes conveniently took sick this morning—and you are a very intimate pal of his who can be trusted both to keep your mouth shut and to take a hand in any dirty work that offers a fair chance of success with not too much risk of being caught at it. You are supposed to know that that is what you are wanted for. Wilkes has arranged with Krinler that you are to take his place. From Lacroix I know that the shipment of silk Krinler is after to-night is over in Hoboken at the K. & L. Line dock. Your part must be no more than that of a witness. Let them steal the case without interference and start away with it. They cannot go very far, for I shall be at hand with a sufficient force in the electric launch to make the capture of Krinler, his motor boat and all in it, yourself included, a certainty. To make our case against him with the authorities flawless and insure the extreme penalty that the law can inflict, we must know every detail of the method by which he has worked—that is your part, my boy—a dangerous one, but a necessary one. Is it clear? Do you fully understand?"

  "I understand—perfectly," said Stranway seriously.

  "Then," said Charlebois, reaching quickly into a drawer of the desk, "here is the address, and Krinler's description; and here are your credentials—a note from Wilkes, together with details of Wilkes himself covering anything that Krinler, if suspicious, might be liable to ask you. You can study the memoranda while you are dressing." He extended two folded pieces of paper to Stranway; then, stepping forward, laid his hand affectionately on Stranway's shoulder. "I am exposing you to great risk, my boy," he added anxiously, his face clouding.

  Stranway smiled gravely, shaking his head.

  "I do not think there is much to fear," he said quietly; "but, in any case, to put an end to a scoundrel like that is worth a bit of a risk, isn't it?"

  "Yes," said Charlebois slowly. "Yes—you are right. Perhaps I am growing old!" He smiled a little wistfully. "There was a time when I did not exaggerate my fears, or even consider them; but now"—his shoulders lifted in an almost pathetic little shrug—"well, go, my boy, go—and be on your guard!"

  Chapter XXIII.

  The Warning

  Table of Contents

  Without a word, only a clasp of the hand that Charlebois held out to him, Stranway turned, hurried from the Red Room, passed through the connecting doors to No. 1 Dominic Court, and entered what was known in the organisation as the "property room," which, a master in the art of make-up himself, Charlebois kept supplied with every accessory. Here, Stranway opened the papers Charlebois had given him, and spread them out on the stand before the mirror that he might study them as he dressed. One contained but a few words rudely scrawled on a torn piece of dirty paper. It ran:

  "Fallon's all rite. You can trust

  him same as me. Whitie."

  This, Stranway, after no more than a single glance, put aside, and devoted his attention to the second paper, which, apart from the address referred to by Charlebois and the promised description of Krinler, contained an intimate word picture of Whitie Wilkes, the man's age, his appearance, his dress, where he lived, his habits, his associates, and even his little mannerisms.

  Stranway memorised the details quickly as he dressed; and then, finally, attired as a mechanic in accordance with the little old gentleman's instructions, respectable, if a little careless in appearance, a few touches of grime very sparingly and unostentatiously applied to his face and hands, Stranway tore up the description of the man with whom he was to claim fellowship, tucked Whitie's note into his vest pocket, left the house, traversed the courtyard, and emerged on Sixth Avenue. From here he walked rapidly to Broadway, then downtown to Astor Place, and from there crossed to the Bowery. Ten minutes later he reached the corner occupied by the so-called restaurant to which he had been directed.

  The side street, as he swung around the corner making for the alleyway at the rear, was for the moment deserted in his immediate vicinity, and, compared with the somewhat fulsome glare of
the Bowery, ill-lighted and dark. He passed the side door of the saloon, reached the alleyway just beyond, turned into it quickly—and came to a sudden stop as, a few feet ahead of him, he made out a dark form huddling close up against the wall.

  "Well, who the devil are you?" he snapped out, startled in spite of himself.

  A sigh—a sigh of relief it seemed—and the rustle of a woman's garments answered him. And then Stranway for a moment stood very still, for now he had no need to see, no need to be told! He knew! It was the Orchid! It was like this that she almost always came—at an unexpected moment—but at a moment too that was almost always one of crisis. What was it, then, that had brought her here to-night? What sudden twist or turn in events had taken place in the short time since he had left Dominic Court?

  And now, as he stepped quickly forward, he could just make out through the darkness the slim figure gowned all in black, the delicate orchid at her corsage, the dark, lustrous eyes.

  "You!" There was apprehension and a strange hunger striving for supremacy in his voice. "You!" he said again. "You—why are you here?"

  "Because," she answered, in a low, hesitant way, "because I am afraid."

  "Afraid!" he repeated—and stared at her in genuine amazement. "You—afraid!"

  "Yes," she said, and now there was a hint of wistfulness, and, too, a quiet dignity in her voice. "For once, I am afraid—for you." Then hurriedly: "I like this work to-night less than any we have ever done. Your risk is—is very, very great. Krinler has too much at stake to hesitate at anything, and, if the slightest suspicion is aroused in his mind, you will be so wholly in his power that you will not have even a fighting chance for your life. I want to warn you; I want to make you promise that, more than you have ever thought of doing before, you will take care of yourself to-night, and——"

  "Wait!" There was wild eagerness in Stranway's hoarse whisper. "Answer me one question. Have you come from Charlebois with any message, have you brought me any instructions; or have you come for—for just this?"

  She made no answer—only turned her head a little from him.

  An instant he waited—and in that instant, thrilled, his heart pounding, a new world, a new joy, a new happiness, a new life, seemed to stretch out in a glorious vista before him. And then, with a low, glad cry, he reached out and caught her hands.

  "Then you care—you care—you care!" There was triumph in his voice, elation, a mighty uplift. "I know it now—at last! You care! And to-night is the end of the impossible situation that has existed between us, and I am to know what it has all meant, and you and I——"

  "You are not making to-night any easier by saying this," she broke in, a little quiver in her tones in spite of her effort to steady them. "If I——" She stopped suddenly, tensely. "Listen! There is some one coming to the back door!" Then, almost frantically, pushing him forward: "Go! Oh, go! If you are seen here with any one they will be suspicious at once. Go, go! Walk toward the door as though you had just entered the alleyway."

  Stranway glanced quickly ahead of him. A glimmer of light showed through a door that was being opened not half a dozen paces away, and now the voices of two men reached him. She was right. He knew that. But for the fraction of a second he hesitated as the intense yearning for her swept upon him, and the temptation to fling every other consideration to the winds all but gained the mastery—and then, with apparent nonchalance as his sense of reason prevailed, he stepped forward. As he reached the doorway, he glanced back over his shoulder—the dark outline of the figure against the wall was no longer there. The Orchid was gone.

  His brain was in riot, in turmoil—but it was a glad, wondrous turmoil! She had disappeared; circumstances had intervened once more between them as they invariably had in the past—but this time the "inevitableness" of it was gone forever. He knew now that she cared, that she must care; that was what had brought her here, that was why she had come—and nothing else mattered now but that. The rest, the fulfilment, since at last it was sure, could wait until——

  "Well, what do you want?" The words, flung out in an uncompromising growl, brought Stranway's self-communion to an abrupt termination.

  "I'm looking for Mr. Jake Sullivan," he replied promptly, his faculties instantly on the alert.

  The door was wide open, and, as he stood before it in the full glare of the light from within, two men confronted him. He swept them both with a well-simulated glance of indifference. The taller of the two was palpably Krinler; and, in view of the standard demanded by Dominic Court, the work of Krinler with false moustache and beard, though fairly well done, seemed crude to Stranway, and he smiled with grim irony to himself at the other's self assurance.

  "All right," Krinler responded bluntly. "I'm Sullivan—come on in." Then to his companion: "I'll see you again to-morrow night, Jim—so long!"

  Stranway stepped forward into what proved to be a long, narrow hallway, and, as the man addressed as Jim went out, Krinler closed the door.

  "Well, what do you want?" Krinler demanded again.

  Stranway fumbled for the note in his pocket, produced it, and handed it to Krinler.

  "My name's Fallon," he said. "Whitie Wilkes sent me." Then, dropping his voice circumspectly: "He said it was a motor boat job up against the fly-cops."

  Krinler read the note, and then slowly began to tear it into little pieces—his fingers working mechanically, while his eyes, playing steadily on Stranway, took him in from head to foot.

  "So you're Fallon, eh?" he observed, his survey completed. "Yes; Whitie spoke to me about you. He says you're pretty good with a motor boat—are you?"

  "I wouldn't be likely to hold my job at the Wayagamack if I wasn't, would I?" Stranway countered. "You needn't worry none on that score."

  "Yes, I guess you're all right that way—and the other way, as well," said Krinler after another moment's pause, during which he seemed to have summed Stranway up to his satisfaction. "Whitie's staking you, and that's enough. Come along in here"—he stepped to a door that opened off the hall a few feet away—"and I'll introduce you to——"

  "Say, just a minute!" broke in Stranway. "Whitie tipped me off that there was a chance of going up the river in another way than in a motor boat if we was caught to-night. That's all right; only I ain't stuck on it just for the sake of the excitement—see?"

  Krinler grinned.

  "Yes—I see," he said. "Well, there'll be enough in it sticking to us so's you won't need that club job of yours any more. Is that good enough?"

  "You bet!" agreed Stranway, heartily. "That's the talk! Whitie said you was square, an' what Whitie says goes. I'm satisfied."

  "Come in here, then," invited Krinler, throwing open the door before which he stood.

  Stranway followed the other into a rather dingy and ill-lighted little room, where two men, hard-faced, and forbidding in appearance, were playing cards and growling at each other over a small table.

  "Time's up!" announced Krinler crisply. "Here's the pal that is going to take Whitie's place. Shake hands with Fallon here, and quit your scrapping."

  Both men jerked their cards into the centre of the table, rose from their seats, and shook hands in turn with Stranway, as Krinler introduced them.

  "And now," ordered Krinler, "we'll split up, and waste no time." He turned to the smaller of the two men. "You, Laurie, you go along with Fallon, and get down there as soon as you can. Leowitz and me'll follow. Go on, now—beat it!"

  The man addressed as Laurie nodded to Stranway. "Come on!" he said laconically—and led the way out through the hall into the alleyway, and from there to the street.

  The man appeared little inclined to talk, and Stranway, for the best of reasons, was in no small measure relieved at the other's taciturnity; he had no wish for conversation that might at any instant plunge him into a position with a bona fide intimate of Whitie Wilkes from which he would not be able to extricate himself—and to his satisfaction, both in the subway to Brooklyn Bridge, and afterwards, while threading the dar
k, narrow streets leading to the water-front of the East River, no more than the barest of commonplaces passed between them. Finally, they came out upon a quay, and Laurie pointed to a good-sized motor boat, perhaps thirty feet long and very narrow in the beam, that was moored alongside with a dinghy made fast to her stern.

  "Get in," he said, "and have a look at her engines, while I get her lights fixed up."

  Stranway dropped into the boat—and then, for the first time, a feeling that closely approximated dismay came over him. The Cherokee, Charlebois' launch, was fast; but he could see at a glance now that, in comparison, the Cherokee was little better than a snail—this was a speed-boat of the latest and most approved type!

  His face was set in the darkness as he bent over the engines, and, after examining them, tested the self-starting lever. It was grimly obvious now that there was other work for him that night besides being merely a passive witness to what transpired! When the time came, this boat must not be allowed to run away from the Cherokee, and there was only one way to prevent it—a breakdown of some sort—a severed battery wire, for instance. He thrust his hand quickly into his pocket and brought out a large clasp-knife. This he opened, and laid on the bottom of the boat at the edge of the grating—it would be unobserved there, and, in the excitement when the chase began, he could use it at an instant's notice without fear of being detected.