“Do you think I could get a freight train toward this Belt Line to-night?”
“They’ll be all sorts o’ freights pullin’ into Chi’ from now on — in about a hour,” said the tramp, sagely regarding the east, which seemed to give him an inkling of the time of night. “It’s me that’s a-goin’ to have a hard time, for I’m headed west. But there’s always some through freight from the east comin’ around by the Belt — and so I’m waitin’.”
“How do you board your train?” asked Middleton. “Where does it slow up?”
He of the ragged coat and unshaven countenance gazed at Middleton in frank astonishment. “Hell, bud, but you are a gaycat fer sure. You don’t know the road.” He pointed east along the right of way, a city block or so from where they sat, at an arc-shaped row of twinkling red switchlamps. “All freights — east or west — slows up at that there point on account of a curve an’ a culvert both, an’ you can swing yourself aboard an empty if you ain’t dead from the neck up. But chances are all east-travellin’ freights’ll be Chicago bound — so keep your eye peeled f’r that town o’ Cann w’at I told you about, or into the yards you go at Chi’.”
The fire was burning perilously low by this time, and the hobo arose with sudden alacrity. “Buddy, watch this ‘ere fire will y’, till I get some more wood. She’s goin’ down fas’ on me. Just poke her up a bit if she begins to die on you.”
Middleton acknowledged the request by taking the other’s seat on the rotten log, where, too, he found himself out of the stinging acid smoke. He gazed down into the dancing flames, now high, now low, seeing in their glowing embers the many, many strange incidents of his life, when suddenly the light from the fire seemed to rise up as though a giant keg of powder had been ignited — he was conscious of a crushing, numbing blow on the back of his head — and then fire and all ceased to exist — everything was dark, black, stygian.
He awoke after what seemed an interminable number of hours, but the distinct stroke of four faint bells sounding dimly in his ears apprised him of the fact that he had been out of the world for only an hour. He suddenly realised that he was lying on his back, and he struggled to a sitting position. The fire was almost out, but it had crept along a single stick of wood and now flared brightly up as it enveloped some unseen hoard of pitch or gum. His companion was gone, and he gazed down at himself in amazement. His shoes were off his feet, his ankles were bare — he wore no coat, and his shirt was soaked with dew. Then he noticed a few dark blotches on the half-illuminated grass near the fire. Staggering drunkenly to his feet and thence over to them, he found that they were a ragged coat, a few inches from which lay, where they had been rudely tossed forth as something of less than of value, the leaden spectacles of Mr. Cagliostro; a crumpled greasy felt hat, and a pair of gaping shoes full of holes — the self-same shoes that a little while back he had seen on that other man’s feet. Socks there were none. Middleton’s foot bumped into a heavy knotted piece of wood on the ground, and as he bent over with a groan to throw it on to the fire, he saw that there was clotted blood on one side. So this was the weapon that had so beautifully put him out.
He stood dazedly, club in hand, and then, suddenly from far, far off, he heard the melancholy hollow shriek of a whistle.
A train! It it were a freight, his chance had come to get out of here. Whether east or west bound, he must be prepared to board it if it were heading in his direction. As rapidly as he could, he drew on the ragged coat, and grimly reflected that this was his second time to don such garments. In such clothing had he entered Birkdale, and in such was he leaving it. Into its pocket, filled with tobacco crumbs, he jammed that pair of leaden spectacles, and the gaping shoes he drew in turn on his sockless feet, lacing them together with the coarse binding twine that they held.
He knew that trains in America travelled on the right track instead of the left, as in the land of his boyhood across the seas, and he kept himself therefore on the left of the two tracks. And thus stumbling along he came rapidly to the trio of warning red switchlights that marked the curve and the culvert described by the “comet” who had struck him down. Here he crouched down in the bushes at the side of the tracks, out of sight of any headlight, and listened to the sput-sput-sput of the approaching locomotive. He waited until a number of the dark cars bumped and banged slowly over the ties a few feet from him, and then he rose to his feet. The flapping door of an open box-car ahead of him jerking to and fro in the wind, pitting the mournful whine of its rollers against the more strident whine of the brakes beneath it, beckoned him understandingly, and he was up off the gravelled road-bed in an instant, one leg over the sill, clambering in.
Along the rails they raced for a few minutes, then they slowed down again. At times they stood stock still, then started up again with a banging jerk that travelled along the entire train of cars. It seemed an interminable trip that he was making. But he must carry on! Compared to Birkdale this was like travelling over the Elysian fields in a golden coach. For it was Freedom!
But just as the morning barely commenced to dawn — the sun had not yet come out, but in the grey light the dew was visible steaming over the fields on all sides of the railroad — and he had peered from his private coach, which had stopped, on the lookout for that precious town of Cann, he heard a brake-man’s whistle behind him, and turning, saw the flash of a lantern bobbing up and down. He popped back in his coach hurriedly and stood with back against the wall; but a moment later an unshaven face peered inside the car, holding its lantern aloft.
“Say you, w’at the hell you ridin’ on anyway?”
Middleton came forth, scratching one ear embarrassedly. “Riding on? Why — riding on the train, I believe?”
“Say, none o’ your lip, Jack. Now, snap out of it. Wot you ridin’ on?”
“I told you.”
“Got any coin? Got a two-bit piece, Jack?”
Middleton shook his head unhappily. “I haven’t any money, my friend. Can’t I ride just a short way further — please?”
The brakesman’s face was savage as he sprang aboard. “Out you come, you dirty lousy bum. One word out o’ you and I’ll jam your teeth down your throat. Hop down now, hop.”
Middleton surveyed the fellow. He had no desire to provoke trouble with anybody on the face of the earth now that he had got safely and beautifully away from the confines of Birkdale, and so he clambered down disgruntedly to the ground. The brakesman got down after him, and watched him suspiciously as he stood off to one side. The train gathered speed, and Middleton found himself suddenly alone on the country side.
He turned sadly and trudged along the track in the direction in which he had been bowling along so nicely five minutes before. Now the sun, whose trembling on the under side of the eastern horizon had created the greyness that made the dawn, came slowly forth over the steaming fields, and made all bright. Day had come, and a cloudless day it was to be, too. He passed a tiny town with a broad main thoroughfare fronted with stores, but nothing opened up at this early hour, not even a pedestrian on its streets, and as he crunched his way past the depot, in which a sleepy telegrapher pounded a train despatcher’s key, he saw that its name was Rivervale.
He did not stop, however, for an instant, but trudged methodically on, past depôt, past main street, past town hall, and as he found himself toward the edge of the little hamlet he rounded a curve in the track only to come face to face with a big, broad-shouldered fellow with a hard face and a derby hat.
The latter stopped squarely in his path. “An’ where may you be goin’, if I may ask?” was his query.
“Just walking eastward,” said Middleton, a little uneasily.
“Well, who the hell said you could walk on the railroad right of way? Get to hell off here, or I’ll run you in. We get enough bums around here nowadays.” His coat, falling aside, revealed on his vest a shiny five-pointed star on which were engraved the words: “Private Police, S. and C.M.R.R.” He surveyed Middleton curiously, and then, because pe
rhaps the object of his scrutiny displayed only blank surprise in his own face, a blankness that was that of one only too willing to comply with any orders, his voice grew a bit kindlier. “I see you don’t know the S. and C.M., bud, or you wouldn’t be trottin’ along the right of way so gaily as you are. Keep off o’ that, whatever you do. And keep out of these towns along here, too, if you know what’s good for you, lad. A nut escaped from the Birkdale insane asylum in this part of the State last night, with brown eyes like yours, and the fact’s posted in all these towns for miles around already. If old Zeb Purkins, the town marshal of this town you’re just on the edge of, ever comes along in his scarlet flivver and sees you, he’ll run you in and hold you as this nut as sure as shooting.” He paused, his voice still friendly. “So there you are, bud. Keep out of Rivervale. Zeb Purkins don’t feed his prisoners very well. Take my advice.”
Silently acquiescent, Middleton clambered off the right of way, up to where a narrow roadway run parallel to the tracks. The railroad detective watched him.
“Beat it now,” he warned. “An’ don’t come back on this right o’ way. If you’d been ridin’ I’d have run you in. But I’ll let you go considerin’ you weren’t. And keep your eyes peeled for Zeb Purkins if you know what’s good for you.”
It was obvious that there was not much love lost between this hard-jawed detective assigned to this division of the road, and the indefatigable Zeb Purkins, considering that the servant of the railroad desired to bestow on the said Zeb neither any prisoners nor any official information that would aid Mr. Purkins to slacken in his possible efforts toward recapturing the escaped “nut.”
Middleton was now on the roadway, entirely off the right of way, and no longer in the jurisdiction of the railroad or any of its minions, and he would remain so, he told himself, until he had travelled a sufficient distance along it that the officious gentleman proceeding in the opposite direction was a good mile behind him. Then he would descend once more to the tracks from the open country which he liked not, now that he had heard a description of its hospitality. But as he tramped along, gazing at the roofs of the cottages on the outskirts of Rivervale, he became aware that something about this entire terrain looked familiar to him. And now he knew exactly why; for, across a neighbouring field, illuminated by the bright morning sun, now well above the horizon, stood a giant factory marking the edge of the town, a five or six storey factory whose entire side facing the railroad, its windows and other apertures bricked or plastered up to provide an unbroken area, had been leased for the purposes of advertisement, and on which, in bewildering coloured letters painted each on an equally bewildering small panel of contrasting colour, stood his father’s blatant advertisement of his newest remedy. Six weeks before — ages it seemed to him now — he had passed this self-same plant on his way to Chicago, and at that time the letters had been white on a solid black background. But now that background had been mapped out into hundreds of bright coloured little panels, a panel for each letter, and the letters themselves had been filled in with all the colours of the rainbow.
MAKES YOU VIEW LIFE THROUGH GLORIOUS COLOURS
GIVES TONE TO YOUR NERVOUS SYSTEM
IS NOT COMPOUNDED MYSTERIOUSLY
MAKES YOU SING A SONG INSTEAD OF MOPE
MADE OF HEALTHFUL HERBS — NOT DRUGS
DIGBY MIDDLETON’S OFFERING SUPREME
THE AMAZING TONIC
ON SALE AT ALL GOOD CHICAGO DRUG STORES FROM
THE LAKE TO OAK PARK. HAVE YOUR DRUGGIST
WRAP YOU UP A BOTTLE.
But as he studied the wild combining of hues which had apparently been his father’s idea of “viewing life through glorious colours” he heard far down the road on which he stood an asthmatic chug-chug-chug, and turning he beheld what was unmistakably a bright red runabout bowling rapidly along. In it there appeared to be two men. And his heart gave a sudden double beat. A scarlet flivver! It belonged in all likelihood to the tramps’ nemesis, the dreaded Zeb Purkins.
The scarlet runabout came steadily closer. It was scarcely more than a quarter of a mile away from him now. What was he to do? He had brown eyes — this salient feature of his description had been scattered broadcast about the countryside by rural telephone. As for his other points, he thanked his lucky stars, at least, that he no longer wore asylum clothes, barring the trousers, which were as any other cheap pair of its kind. His eyes were the dangerous point. A sudden idea came to him — an idea that solved the whole matter: his eyes could be covered.
Like a flash he brought out of his pocket the old sun-glasses of Cagliostro. At last he was to gain some small utility from his quite useless heritage. He opened up the bows, and with four quick twists of his thumb and index finger twisted entirely off the upper and lower halves of the soft leaden spreadleg pins that held the bows to the frames. Now they presented a less bizarre appearance than ever they had presented yet. Gingerly, so as not to loosen bow from frame, he placed them on his face and hooked them over his ears. He bent hurriedly down and picked up a staff from the roadside. Then, a ragged pilgrim of the road, journeying to some distant Mecca, he stood aloft, staff in hand, spectacles upon face, and turned his gaze to the distant factoryside whose emblazoned advertisement he had been reading a short while before.
But a bewildering transformation had taken place in that sign which only a moment before had been composed ot bright-coloured letters on equally bright-coloured panels. Gone entirely were the medley of colours, not to mention the top line of the advertisement as well, and there remained only a huge gargantuan blackboard on which some giant had delineated in a weird, unearthly blue chalk the message:
To my son — to my son Herb. Herb! Herbert — the one name in the Jerome Herbert Middleton patronymic which his father had favoured, and the contraction of which he had always affectionately used in all of his letters. To my son Herb! Truly, Jerry Middleton knew that he had received this moment a message from the dead!
CHAPTER XXV
MR. FORTESCUE’S ‘PHONE RINGS
IT was at just exactly one o’clock in the morning that Luther Fortescue, in his bachelor suite in the Eastwood Arms in Chicago, was aroused from a sound and satisfying sleep by the insistent ringing of his telephone bell He opened his eyes and lay staring for a moment into the darkness, and then suddenly, full realisation coming to him, he sprang to his feet, snapped on the lights, tossed a bathrobe over his silken-pyjamaed body, and lifted the receiver of the instrument that stood in the tiny hallway of the apartment. A deep voice, a voice gruff as well as bass, responded to his hello.
“Want to speak to Luther Fortescue.”
“Fortescue speaking,” said Fortescue, rubbing his eyes that still persisted in trying to close.
“Well, this is the Detective Bureau speaking. Sergeant Bellcamp.”
Detective Bureau — Bellcamp! For just a moment a chill struck Fortescue, and then he shook it off.
“Yes, Detective Bureau. Well, here’s what I want to speak to you about. Do you recall some time ago sending to the Birkdale Asylum some nut by the name of Doe who claimed to be this Middleton who was in the newspapers.”
“Why, yes — yes — to be sure. I was one of those who signed the commitment petition. What about him?”
“Well, we have had a long-distance ‘phone message from the asylum about twenty minutes ago that he escaped from there about eleven-fifteen last night.”
“Escaped! The devil you say. How was it done?”
“All they know is that he was visited twice by a young woman with brown eyes — some fool girl whom he evidently put it over that he was sane. They found two of the bars in his room sawed, and a hacksaw underneath his bedclothing. Anyway, he’s gone. This fellow, they tell us here, is a dangerous lunatic — paranoia — one of those kind of birds that kill their persecutors — and so I’m sending out warning to all the people involved in his commitment. The names I’m calling up are Roger Searles, Andrew Lockwood, Jerome H. Middleton and yourself, all of Chicago. I’v
e got the first two. I couldn’t get Mr. Middleton, and now I’ve got you.”
“Well — say,” said Fortescue, “I’m — I’m mighty obliged to you. Terribly obliged.” He pondered. There were ugly lines in his face, and he passed a hand worriedly over his brow.
“You say,” he asked suddenly, “that this fellow is a dangerous sort of man to be at large?”
“So they tell me,” said the Detective Bureau head.
“Well — well — suppose he should get a firearm — suppose this girl, whoever she is, that he put it over, got a firearm into his hands — and suppose he should confront me?”
“Well,” said the Detective Bureau head laconically, “I can only say that your only hope with a man like that is to shoot at sight — and shoot quick. If this man gets to any of you people here he’ll probably try to kill you. That is, if by any chance he’s armed. If he makes the least suspicious movement toward a back pocket, shoot him down as you would a mad dog. The State will be better off as a result of it. That’s all. Well, I’m going to try and get this man Middleton again.”
Fortescue hung up. His face was a picture of deep and frowning thought. He stood thus for several long minutes and then he rang a number on Astor Street. Only the monotonous buzzing of the receiver answered him. He replaced it on its hook.
“She must have talked with him,” he told himself savagely, “by gad, he’ll make for her place, of course, for only she can give him a safe shelter. He knows and she knows that a big commotion will be stirred up on his escape — that we’ll have rewards posted for his recapture. Yes — they know that.”
He sat a while longer with his hand cupped to his chin. Then suddenly he turned to a small card on his ‘phone and, looking up a pencilled notation on it, rang a number over in Chicago’s Sicilian district where the Mafia and the Black Hand reigned. He got his connection, Lombard 1224, immediately, but the ‘phone rang for quite a while before it was answered by a sleepy voice with a pronounced Italian accent. Fortescue spoke quickly, hurriedly.
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