One Wonderful Night: A Romance of New York
"Yes. She advised me to shun him as I would the plague."
"Did she give any reason?"
"It may sound strange, but I really believe she wants him to marry her
daughter."
"Ah, that is interesting. Pray go on."
"I never understood the thing rightly, but I heard once, through a
servant, that Count Vassilan was expected to wed Elizabetta
Zapolya--the succession to the Hungarian monarchy, if ever it were
revived, was involved--but Count Vassilan spurned the lady. The
Countess is furious because her daughter was slighted, yet wishes to
compel him to fulfill his obligations."
"In that event, she would be anxious to see you safely married to some
other person?"
"Oh, she was. She visited me, several times, and advised me not to
risk a life-long unhappiness by becoming mixed up in the maze of
Mid-Europe politics. And--there is something else. Poor Elizabetta
Zapolya, who is somewhat older than me, is in love with an attache at
the Austro-Hungarian Embassy in Paris."
"Have you his name?"
"Yes. Captain Eugene de Karely."
"How does he stand with regard to Count Vassilan?"
"I am told that he has challenged him repeatedly to a duel, but Count
Vassilan cannot meet him because they are not equals in the grades of
Hungarian aristocracy. I am glad that Mr. Curtis did not wait to
consult the Almanach de Gotha when _he_ encountered the wretch. Has he
told you that he hit him?"
"I have seen the Count," said Steingall.
"Where?"
The detective was not deaf to the note of alarm in her voice, but the
matter must be broached some time, and why not now?
"At the Central Hotel, about an hour ago," he said.
"Was my father with him?"
"Yes. The Earl has also had the pleasure of a few minutes' talk with
Mr. Curtis."
Hermione was open-eyed with surprise.
"Mr. Curtis has not said a word of this to me," she cried, and her
louder tone traveled across the room.
"Said a word about what?" inquired Curtis, being not unwilling to break
in on the conversation, which he thought had lasted quite long enough.
"That my father and Count Vassilan had met you at your hotel."
"No, not Count Vassilan," explained the detective. "He had gone before
Mr. Curtis came, but Lord Valletort returned."
"Did he ask you where I was?" demanded the girl breathlessly,
addressing Curtis.
"No. He tried to have me arrested, and failed. I think he looked on
me as an unlikely subject to yield unnecessary information."
"Supper is served, sir," said a maitre d'hotel to Uncle Horace, and
further discussion of Count Vassilan's tangled matrimonial schemes
became difficult for the moment.
Steingall was pressed to join the party--without prejudice to any
official duties he might be called on to perform next day, as Curtis
put it pleasantly--and consented. Once again had his instinct been
justified, for he was sure that Lady Hermione's Parisian reminiscences
would prove important in some way not yet determinable. Moreover, his
colleagues knew he was at the Plaza Hotel, and he was content to remain
there while his trusted aide, Clancy, was acting as chauffeur during
Count Vassilan's belated excursion.
The police captain was keeping an eye on the Waldorf-Astoria, a
detective was searching the apartment rented by the murdered
journalist, and other men of the Bureau were hunting the record of the
automobile, though Steingall was convinced that this branch of the
inquiry would end in a blind alley, because the car had undoubtedly
been stolen, and its lawful owner would only be able to identify it,
and declare that, to the best of his belief, it was locked in a garage
at the time it was being used for the commission of a crime. Steingall
assumed that the unfortunate Hunter--or it might have been de
Courtois--was led to hire this particular vehicle by adroit
misrepresentation on the part of some unknown scoundrels who were aware
of the contemplated marriage. The shorthand notes in Hunter's book
bore out this theory, because they were obviously data supplied by de
Courtois which would have enabled the journalist to write a thoroughly
sensational story next day. He was convinced, when the truth was
known, it would be discovered that Hunter made the Frenchman's
acquaintance owing to his habit of mixing with the strange underworld
from the Continent of Europe which has its lost legion in New York. De
Courtois was just the sort of vainglorious little man who would welcome
the notoriety of such an adventure as the prevented marriage ceremony,
wherein his name would figure with those of distinguished people, and
the last thing he counted on was the murder of the scribe who had
promised him columns of descriptive matter in the press. The pert
musician was not the first, nor would he be the last, to find that the
role of cat's-paw is apt to prove more exacting than was anticipated.
To his chagrin, he saw himself changed suddenly from a trusted agent
into a dupe, and his utter collapse on hearing of the murder fitted in
exactly with the theory taking shape in the detective's mind--that
there were two implacable forces at war in New York that night, that
Lady Hermione's marriage to Count Vassilan or the Frenchman provided
the immediate bone of contention, and that the struggle had been
complicated by a too literal interpretation of instructions carried out
by bitter partisans.
In the midst of a lively conversation, the telephone jangled its
imperative message from a wall bracket in the room. Devar was nearest
the instrument, and he answered the call.
"It's for you, Mr. Steingall," he said.
The detective would have preferred greater privacy, but he rose at once
and answered.
"And who is Mr. Krantz?" he demanded. Then, after a pause: "Oh,
yes. . . . Is he? . . . You needn't trouble at all about that. The
police surgeon, at my request, has dosed him with sufficient bromide to
keep him quiet till to-morrow morning. . . . Yes, I understand. Tell
them it can't be done, and refer them to the Centre-street
Bureau. . . . What? . . . No, so far as I can guess, the engineer
won't be wanted again to-night."
He hung up the receiver, and returned to his seat, though he had just
been informed that the Earl of Valletort and another person, having
ascertained by some means that de Courtois still lived, were raising a
commotion at the Central Hotel and demanding access to the Frenchman's
room.
"Please, am I mixed up with Mr. Krantz?" inquired Hermione, smiling,
for it was a bizarre experience to find herself interested in all sorts
and conditions of people whom she had never heard of.
"Mr. Krantz is the reception clerk at the Central Hotel," was the
answer, which conveyed fuller information to other ears than the
girl's. Then Steingall glanced at his watch.
"I think some of you people must be tired after a strenuous day," he
said. "I expect to be called away soon, and it is possible that I may
want to disturb you, Mr. Curtis, before you retire for the night. Do
you intend to remain here?"
"Yes."
For an instant, an appreciable constraint manifested its presence, and
Uncle Horace did not display his wonted tact when he accentuated it by
a dry chuckle, _a propos_ of nothing in particular. Curtis relieved
the situation after a slight hesitation.
"Lady Hermione, I take it, will now go to bed," he said coolly, "and,
if she is wise, will refuse to unlock her door again till her maid
comes in the morning. I purpose changing my clothes, in case I may
have to accompany you on some midnight expedition. My uncle and aunt
will tell us where they are staying, and arrange to meet us here at
lunch to-morrow. You, Devar, being an approved night hawk, will join
me in a cigar. How is that for a reasonable disposal of the company,
Mr. Steingall?"
As though in reply, the telephone rang again, and the detective lifted
the receiver from its hook.
"Hello! That you, Clancy?" he said. "Right. I'll come along by the
subway from 59th Street--that will be quicker than a taxi . . .
yes . . . yes."
He turned, and the five people in the room saw that his face was
glowing with the fire of action.
"You can defer that change of suits, Mr. Curtis. We must be off at
once. . . . Mr. Devar, have you an automobile? Can you get hold of it
now? Well, 'phone your chauffeur to be at Centre-street headquarters
in as much under half-an-hour as he can manage. Taxi-drivers gossip
among themselves, so a private car is better. . . . Excuse the rush,
Lady Hermione, and you, too, Mrs. Curtis. I haven't another minute to
spare."
Luckily, Curtis found his overcoat awaiting him in the cloak room, or
he might have been in a difficulty, for New York in November is not a
city which encourages midnight journeys in evening dress.
Uncle Horace and Aunt Louisa were hurried into a taxi, and as they were
being whisked off to the quiet hotel to which their baggage had been
consigned, the stout man began polishing his domed forehead once more.
"Lou," he said, "I can't make head nor tail of this business. Can you?"
"Not yet, Horace," was the hopeful response.
"But--what sort of marriage is this, anyway?"
"Oh, that's all right. Those two haven't begun courting yet. But it
won't be long before they start. Did you notice----"
And details observed by Aunt Louisa endured till the taxi stopped.
CHAPTER X
MIDNIGHT
After a quick journey by New York's unrivaled system of rapid transit,
the three men alighted at Spring Street, and a couple of minutes' brisk
walk brought them to a large, white-fronted building of severe
architecture. Above the main entrance two green lamps stared solemnly
into the night, and their monitory gleam seemed to bid evildoers
"Beware!"; nor was there aught far-fetched in the notion, because from
this imposing center New York's guardians kept watch and ward over the
city.
"Clancy still waiting?" demanded Steingall of a policeman in uniform
who was on duty in an inquiry office.
"Yes, sir. He asked me to be on the lookout in case you turned up
unexpectedly, as he didn't want to miss you."
The Chief Inspector led his companions straight to the Detective
Bureau, taking good care to avoid the room in which the "covering"
reporters were gathered, because the Police Headquarters of New York,
unlike any similar department outside the bounds of the United States,
makes the press welcome, and gives details of all arrests, fires,
accidents and other occurrences of a noteworthy nature as soon as the
facts are telegraphed or telephoned from outlying districts.
Passing through the general office, Steingall entered his own sanctum.
A small, slightly built man was bent over a table and scrutinizing a
Rogues' Gallery of photographs in a large album. He turned as the door
opened, straightened himself, and revealed a wizened face, somewhat of
the actor type, its prominent features being an expressive mouth, a
thin, hooked nose, and a pair of singularly piercing and deeply sunken
eyes.
"Hello, Bob," he said to Steingall. Then, without a moment's
hesitation, he added: "Good-evening, Mr. Curtis--glad to see you, Mr.
Devar."
"Good-evening, Mr. Clancy," said Curtis, not to be outdone in this
exchange of compliments, though he could not imagine how a person who
had never seen him should not only know his name but apply it so
confidently.
"May we smoke here?" asked Devar, who had lighted a cigar on emerging
from the subway station.
"Oh, yes," said Steingall. "Make yourselves at home in that respect.
I am a hard smoker. Let me offer you a good American cigar, Mr.
Curtis."
"Thank you. Perhaps you will try one of mine. I bought them in
London, but they are of a fair brand. You, too, Mr. Clancy?"