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Anna Katharine Green >> Initials Only
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No sooner had he approached the sill than Mr. Brotherson's shade
flew way up and he, too, looked out. Their glances met, and for an
instant the hardy detective experienced that involuntary stagnation
of the blood which follows an inner shock. He felt that he had been
recognised. The moonlight lay full upon his face, and the other
had seen and known him. Else, why the constrained attitude and
sudden rigidity observable in this confronting figure, with its
partially lifted hand? A man like Brotherson makes no pause in
any action however trivial, without a reason. Either he had been
transfixed by this glimpse of his enemy on watch, or daring thought!
had seen enough of sepulchral suggestion in the wan face looking
forth from this fatal window to shake him from his composure and
let loose the grinning devil of remorse from its iron prison-house?
If so, the movement was a memorable one, and the hazard quite worth
while. He had gained--no! he had gained nothing. He had been
the fool of his own wishes. No one, let alone Brotherson, could
have mistaken his face for that of a woman. He had forgotten his
newly-grown beard. Some other cause must be found for the other's
attitude. It savoured of shock, if not fear. If it were fear,
then had he roused an emotion which might rebound upon himself in
sharp reprisal. Death had been known to strike people standing
where he stood; mysterious death of a species quite unrecognisable.
What warranty had he that it would not strike him, and now? None.
Yet it was Brotherson who moved first. With a shrug of the shoulder
plainly visible to the man opposite, he turned away from the window
and without lowering the shade began gathering up his papers for the
night, and later banking up his stove with ashes.
Sweetwater, with a breath of decided relief, stepped back and threw
himself on the bed. It had really been a trial for him to stand
there under the other's eye, though his mind refused to formulate
his fear, or to give him any satisfaction when he asked himself what
there was in the situation suggestive of death to the woman or harm
to himself.
Nor did morning light bring counsel, as is usual in similar cases.
He felt the mystery more in the hubbub and restless turmoil of the
day than in the night's silence and inactivity. He was glad when
the stroke of six gave him an excuse to leave the room, and gladder
yet when in doing so, he ran upon an old woman from a neighbouring
room, who no sooner saw him than she leered at him and eagerly
remarked:
"Not much sleep, eh? We didn't think you'd like it. Did you see
anything?"
Now this gave him the one excuse he wanted.
"See anything?" he repeated, apparently with all imaginable innocence.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Don't you know what happened in that room?"
"Don't tell me!" he shouted out. "I don't want to hear any
nonsense. I haven't time. I've got to be at the shop at seven and
I don't feel very well. What did happen?" he mumbled in drawing
off, just loud enough for the woman to hear. "Something unpleasant
I'm sure." Then he ran downstairs.
At half past six he found the janitor. He was, to all appearance,
in a state of great excitement and he spoke very fast.
"I won't stay another night in that room," he loudly declared,
breaking in where the family were eating breakfast by lamplight. "I
don't want to make any trouble and I don't want to give my reasons;
but that room don't suit me. I'd rather take the dark one you
talked about yesterday. There's the money. Have my things moved
to-day, will ye?"
"But your moving out after one night's stay will give that room a
bad name," stammered the janitor, rising awkwardly. "There'll be
talk and I won't be able to let that room all winter."
"Nonsense! Every man hasn't the nerves I have. You'll let it in
a week. But let or not let, I'm going front into the little dark
room. I'll get the boss to let me off at half past four. So that's
settled."
He waited for no reply and got none; but when he appeared promptly
at a quarter to five, he found his few belongings moved into a
middle room on the fourth floor of the front building, which, oddly
perhaps, chanced to be next door to the one he had held under watch
the night before.
The first page of his adventure in the Hicks Street tenement had
been turned, and he was ready to start upon another.
XVII
IN WHICH A BOOK PLAYS A LEADING PART
When Mr. Brotherson came in that night, he noticed that the door
of the room adjoining his own stood open. He did not hesitate.
Making immediately for it, he took a glance inside, then spoke up
with a ringing intonation:
"Halloo! coming to live in this hole?"
The occupant a young man, evidently a workman and somewhat sickly
if one could judge from his complexion--turned around from some
tinkering he was engaged in and met the intruder fairly, face to
face. If his jaw fell, it seemed to be from admiration. No other
emotion would have so lighted his eye as he took in the others
proportions and commanding features. No dress--Brotherson was
never seen in any other than the homeliest garb in these days
--could make him look common or akin to his surroundings. Whether
seen near or far, his presence always caused surprise, and surprise
was what the young man showed, as he answered briskly:
"Yes, this is to be my castle. Are you the owner of the buildings?
If so--"
"I am not the owner. I live next door. Haven't I seen you before,
young man?"
Never was there a more penetrating eye than Orlando Brotherson's.
As he asked this question it took some effort on the part of the
other to hold his own and laugh with perfect naturalness as he
replied:
"If you ever go up Henry Street it's likely enough that you've seen
me not once, but many times. I'm the fellow who works at the bench
next the window in Schuper's repairing shop. Everybody knows me."
Audacity often carries the day when subtler means would fail.
Brotherson stared at the youth, then ventured another question:
"A carpenter, eh?"
"Yes, and I'm an A1 man at my job. Excuse my brag. It's my one
card of introduction."
"I've seen you. I've seen you somewhere else than in Schuper's shop.
Do you remember me?"
"No, sir; I'm sorry to be imperlite but I don't remember you at all.
Won't you sit down? It's not very cheerful, but I'm so glad to get
out of the room I was in last night that this looks all right to
me. Back there, other building," he whispered. "I didn't know,
and took the room which had a window in it; but--" The stop was
significant; so was his smile which had a touch of sickliness in it,
as well as humour.
But Brotherson was not to be caught.
"You slept in the building last night? In the other half, I mean?"
"Yes, I--slept."
The strong lip of the other man curled disdainfully.
"I saw you," said he. "You were standing in the window overlooking
the court. You were not sleeping then. I suppose you know that a
woman died in that room?"
"Yes; they told me so this morning."
"Was that the first you'd heard of it?"
"Sure!" The word almost jumped at the questioner. "Do you suppose
I'd have taken the room if--"
But here the intruder, with a disdainful grunt, turned and went out,
disgust in every feature,--plain, unmistakable, downright disgust,
and nothing more!
This was what gave Sweetwater his second bad night; this and a
certain discovery he made. He had counted on hearing what went on
in the neighbouring room through the partition running back of
his own closet. But he could hear nothing, unless it was the
shutting down of a window, a loud sneeze, or the rattling of coals
as they were put on the fire. And these possessed no significance.
What he wanted was to catch the secret sigh, the muttered word, the
involuntary movement. He was too far removed from this man still.
How should he manage to get nearer him--at the door of his mind
--of his heart? Sweetwater stared all night from his miserable cot
into the darkness of that separating closet, and with no result. His
task looked hopeless; no wonder that he could get no rest.
Next morning he felt ill, but he rose all the same, and tried to get
his own breakfast. He had but partially succeeded and was sitting
on the edge of his bed in wretched discomfort, when the very man he
was thinking of appeared at his door.
"I've come to see how you are," said Brotherson. "I noticed that
you did not look well last night. Won't you come in and share my
pot of coffee?"
"I--I can't eat," mumbled Sweetwater, for once in his life thrown
completely off his balance. "You're very kind, but I'll manage all
right. I'd rather. I'm not quite dressed, you see, and I must
get to the shop." Then he thought--"What an opportunity I'm losing.
Have I any right to turn tail because he plays his game from the
outset with trumps? No, I've a small trump somewhere about me to
lay on this trick. It isn't an ace, but it'll show I'm not chicane."
And smiling, though not with his usual cheerfulness, Sweetwater added,
"Is the coffee all made? I might take a drop of that. But you
mustn't ask me to eat--I just couldn't."
"Yes, the coffee is made and it isn't bad either. You'd better put
on your coat; the hall's draughty." And waiting till Sweetwater did
so, he led the way back to his own room. Brotherson's manner
expressed perfect ease, Sweetwater's not. He knew himself changed
in looks, in bearing, in feeling, even; but was he changed enough to
deceive this man on the very spot where they had confronted each
other a few days before in a keen moral struggle? The looking-glass
he passed on his way to the table where the simple breakfast was
spread out, showed him a figure so unlike the alert, business-like
chap he had been that night, that he felt his old assurance revive
in time to ease a situation which had no counterpart in his
experience.
"I'm going out myself to-day, so we'll have to hurry a bit," was
Brotherson's first remark as they seated themselves at table. "Do
you like your coffee plain or with milk in it?"
"Plain. Gosh! what pictures! Where do you get 'em? You must have
a lot of coin." Sweetwater was staring at the row of photographs,
mostly of a very high order, tacked along the wall separating the
two rooms. They were unframed, but they were mostly copies of great
pictures, and the effect was rather imposing in contrast to the
shabby furniture and the otherwise homely fittings.
"Yes, I've enough for that kind of thing," was his host's reply.
But the tone was reserved, and Sweetwater did not presume again
along this line. Instead, he looked well at the books piled upon
the shelves under these photographs, and wondered aloud at their
number and at the man who could waste such a lot of time in reading
them. But he made no more direct remarks. Was he cowed by the
penetrating eye he encountered whenever he yielded to the fascination
exerted by Mr. Brotherson's personality and looked his way? He
hated to think so, yet something held him in check and made him
listen, open-mouthed, when the other chose to speak.
Yet there was one cheerful moment. It was when he noticed the
careless way in which those books were arranged upon their shelves.
An idea had come to him. He hid his relief in his cup, as he drained
the last drops of the coffee which really tasted better than he had
expected.
When he returned from work that afternoon it was with an auger under
his coat and a conviction which led him to empty out the contents
of a small phial which he took down from a shelf. He had told Mr.
Gryce that he was eager for the business because of its difficulties,
but that was when he was feeling fine and up to any game which might
come his way. Now he felt weak and easily discouraged. This would
not do. He must regain his health at all hazards, so he poured out
the mixture which had given him such a sickly air. This done and a
rude supper eaten, he took up his auger. He had heard Mr.
Brotherson's step go by. But next minute he laid it down again in
great haste and flung a newspaper over it. Mr. Brotherson was coming
back, had stopped at his door, had knocked and must be let in.
"You're better this evening," he heard in those kindly tones which
so confused and irritated him.
"Yes," was the surly admission. "But it's stifling here. If I have
to live long in this hole I'll dry up from want of air. It's near
the shop or I wouldn't stay out the week." Twice this day he had
seen Brotherson's tall figure stop before the window of this shop
and look in at him at his bench. But he said nothing about that.
"Yes," agreed the other, "it's no way to live. But you're alone.
Upstairs there's a whole family huddled into a room just like this.
Two of the kids sleep in the closet. It's things like that which
have made me the friend of the poor, and the mortal enemy of men
and women who spread themselves over a dozen big rooms and think
themselves ill-used if the gas burns poorly or a fireplace smokes.
I'm off for the evening; anything I can do for you?"
"Show me how I can win my way into such rooms as you've just talked
about. Nothing less will make me look up. I'd like to sleep in one
to-night. In the best bedroom, sir. I'm ambitious; I am."
A poor joke, though they both laughed. There Mr. Brotherson passed
on, and Sweetwater listened till he was sure that his too attentive
neighbour had really gone down the three flights between him and
the street. Then he took up his auger again and shut himself up in
his closet.
There was nothing peculiar about this closet. It was just an
ordinary one with drawers and shelves on one side, and an open space
on the other for the hanging up of clothes. Very few clothes hung
there at present; but it was in this portion of the closet that he
stopped and began to try the wall of Brotherson's room, with the
butt end of the tool he carried.
The sound seemed to satisfy him, for very soon he was boring a hole
at a point exactly level with his ear; but not without frequent
pauses and much attention given to the possible return of those
departed foot-steps. He remembered that Mr. Brotherson had a way
of coming back on unexpected errands after giving out his intention
of being absent for hours.
Sweetwater did not want to be caught in any such trap as that; so he
carefully followed every sound that reached him from the noisy halls.
But he did not forsake his post; he did not have to. Mr. Brotherson
had been sincere in his good-bye, and the auger finished its job and
was withdrawn without any interruption from the man whose premises
had been thus audaciously invaded.
"Neat as well as useful," was the gay comment with which Sweetwater
surveyed his work, then laid his ear to the hole. Whereas
previously he could barely hear the rattling of coals from the
coal-scuttle, he was now able to catch the sound of an ash falling
into the ash-pit.
His next move was to test the depth of the partition by inserting
his finger in the hole he had made. He found it stopped by some
obstacle before it had reached half its length, and anxious to
satisfy himself of the nature of this obstacle, he gently moved the
tip of his finger to and fro over what was certainly the edge of a
book.
This proved that his calculations had been correct and that the
opening so accessible on his side, was completely veiled on the
other by the books he had seen packed on the shelves. As these
shelves had no other backing than the wall, he had feared striking
a spot not covered by a book. But he had not undertaken so risky
a piece of work without first noting how nearly the tops of the
books approached the line of the shelf above them, and the
consequent unlikelihood of his striking the space between, at the
height he planned the hole. He had even been careful to assure
himself that all the volumes at this exact point stood far enough
forward to afford room behind them for the chips and plaster he must
necessarily push through with his auger, and also--important
consideration--for the free passage of the sounds by which he
hoped to profit.
As he listened for a moment longer, and then stooped to gather up
the debris which had fallen on his own side of the partition, he
muttered, in his old self-congratulatory way:
"If the devil don't interfere in some way best known to himself, this
opportunity I have made for myself of listening to this arrogant
fellow's very heartbeats should give me some clew to his secret.
As soon as I can stand it, I'll spend my evenings at this hole."
But it was days before he could trust himself so far. Meanwhile
their acquaintance ripened, though with no very satisfactory results.
The detective found himself led into telling stories of his early
home-life to keep pace with the man who always had something of
moment and solid interest to impart. This was undesirable, for
instead of calling out a corresponding confidence from Brotherson,
it only seemed to make his conversation more coldly impersonal.
In consequence, Sweetwater suddenly found himself quite well and
one evening, when he was sure that his neighbour was at home, he
slid softly into his closet and laid his ear to the opening he had
made there. The result was unexpected. Mr. Brotherson was pacing
the floor, and talking softly to himself.
At first, the cadence and full music of the tones conveyed nothing
to our far from literary detective. The victim of his secret
machinations was expressing himself in words, words;--that was the
point which counted with him. But as he listened longer and
gradually took in the sense of these words, his heart went down
lower and lower till it reached his boots. His inscrutable and ever
disappointing neighbour was not indulging in self-communings of any
kind. He was reciting poetry, and what was worse, poetry which he
only half remembered and was trying to recall;--an incredible
occupation for a man weighted with a criminal secret.
Sweetwater was disgusted, and was withdrawing in high indignation
from his vantage-point when something occurred of a startling enough
nature to hold him where he was in almost breathless expectation.
The hole which in the darkness of the closet was always faintly
visible, even when the light was not very strong in the adjoining
room, had suddenly become a bright and shining loop-hole, with a
suggestion of movement in the space beyond. The book which had
hid this hole on Brotherson's side had been taken down--the one
book in all those hundreds whose removal threatened Sweetwater's
schemes, if not himself.
For an instant the thwarted detective listened for the angry shout
or the smothered oath which would naturally follow the discovery by
Brotherson of this attempted interference with his privacy.
But all was still on his side of the wall. A rustling of leaves
could be heard, as the inventor searched for the poem he wanted, but
nothing more. In withdrawing the book, he had failed to notice the
hole in the plaster back of it. But he could hardly fail to see it
when he came to put the book back. Meantime, suspense for Sweetwater.
It was several minutes before he heard Mr. Brotherson's voice again,
then it was in triumphant repetition of the lines which had escaped
his memory. They were great words surely and Sweetwater never
forgot them, but the impression which they made upon his mind, an
impression so forcible that he was able to repeat them, months
afterward to Mr. Gryce, did not prevent him from noting the tone in
which they were uttered, nor the thud which followed as the book was
thrown down upon the floor.
"Fool!" The word rang out in bitter irony from his irate neighbour's
lips. "What does he know of woman! Woman! Let him court a rich
one and see--but that's all over and done with. No more harping on
that string, and no more reading of poetry. I'll never,--" The rest
was lost in his throat and was quite unintelligible to the anxious
listener.
Self-revealing words, which an instant before would have aroused
Sweetwater's deepest interest! But they had suddenly lost all force
for the unhappy listener. The sight of that hole still shining
brightly before his eyes had distracted his thoughts and roused his
liveliest apprehensions. If that book should be allowed to lie where
it had fallen, then he was in for a period of uncertainty he shrank
from contemplating. Any moment his neighbour might look up and
catch sight of this hole bored in the backing of the shelves before
him. Could the man who had been guilty of submitting him to this
outrage stand the strain of waiting indefinitely for the moment of
discovery? He doubted it, if the suspense lasted too long.
Shifting his position, he placed his eye where his ear had been.
He could see very little. The space before him, limited as it was
to the width of the one volume withdrawn, precluded his seeing aught
but what lay directly before him. Happily, it was in this narrow
line of vision that Mr. Brotherson stood. He had resumed work upon
his model and was so placed that while his face was not visible, his
hands were, and as Sweetwater watched these hands and noticed the
delicacy of their manipulation, he was enough of a workman to realise
that work so fine called for an undivided attention. He need not
fear the gaze shifting, while those hands moved as warily as they
did now.
Relieved for the moment, he left his post and, sitting down on the
edge of his cot, gave himself up to thought.
He deserved this mischance. Had he profited properly by Mr. Gryce's
teachings, he would not have been caught like this; he would have
calculated not upon the nine hundred and ninety-nine chances of that
book being left alone, but upon the thousandth one of its being the
very one to be singled out and removed. Had he done this,--had he
taken pains to so roughen and discolour the opening he had made,
that it would look like an ancient rat hole instead of showing a
clean bore, he would have some answer to give Brotherson when he
came to question him in regard to it. But now the whole thing
seemed up! He had shown himself a fool and by good rights ought
to acknowledge his defeat and return to Headquarters. But he had
too much spirit for that. He would rather--yes, he would rather
face the pistol he had once seen in his enemy's hand. Yet it
was hard to sit here waiting, waiting--Suddenly he started upright.
He would go meet his fate--be present in the room itself when the
discovery was made which threatened to upset all his plans. He
was not ashamed of his calling, and Brotherson would think twice
before attacking him when once convinced that he had the Department
behind him.
"Excuse me, comrade," were the words with which he endeavoured to
account for his presence at Brotherson's door. "My lamp smells so,
and I've made such a mess of my work to-day that I've just stepped
in for a chat. If I'm not wanted, say so. I don't want to bother
you, but you do look pleasant here. I hope the thing I'm turning
over in my head--every man has his schemes for making a fortune,
you know--will be a success some day. I'd like a big room like
this, and a lot of books, and--and pictures."
Craning his neck, he took a peep at the shelves, with an air of
open admiration which effectually concealed his real purpose. What
he wanted was to catch one glimpse of that empty space from his
present standpoint, and he was both astonished and relieved to note
how narrow and inconspicuous it looked. Certainly, he had less to
fear than he supposed, and when, upon Mr. Brotherson's invitation,
he stepped into the room, it was with a dash of his former audacity,
which gave him, unfortunately, perhaps, a quick, strong and
unexpected likeness to his old self.
But if Brotherson noticed this, nothing in his manner gave proof
of the fact. Though usually averse to visitors, especially when
employed as at present on his precious model, he quite warmed
towards his unexpected guest, and even led the way to where it
stood uncovered on the table.
"You find me at work," he remarked. "I don't suppose you understand
any but your own?"
"If you mean to ask if I understand what you're trying to do there,
I'm free to say that I don't. I couldn't tell now, off-hand, whether
it's an air-ship you're planning, a hydraulic machine or--or--" He
stopped, with a laugh and turned towards the book-shelves. "Now
here's what I like. These books just take my eye."
"Look at them, then. I like to see a man interested in books. Only,
I thought if you knew how to handle wire, I would get you to hold
this end while I work with the other."
"I guess I know enough for that," was Sweetwater's gay rejoinder.
But when he felt that communicating wire in his hand and experienced
for the first time the full influence of the other's eye, it took
all his hardihood to hide the hypnotic thrill it gave him. Though
he smiled and chatted, he could not help asking himself between
whiles, what had killed the poor washerwoman across the court, and
what had killed Miss Challoner. Something visible or something
invisible? Something which gave warning of attack, or something
which struck in silence. He found himself gazing long and earnestly
at this man's hand, and wondering if death lay under it. It was a
strong hand, a deft, clean-cut member, formed to respond to the
slightest hint from the powerful brain controlling it. But was this
its whole story. Had he said all when he had said this?
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