One Wonderful Night: A Romance of New York
consequences." Steingall's tone was so offhanded that Lamotte was
afraid he had lost a good opportunity of saving his neck.
"But what is there to tell?" he cried.
"Just what happened outside the Central Hotel and afterwards."
"I brought Mr. Hunter there, and nodded to Martiny and Rossi, who were
waiting on the sidewalk, to show that he was inside the car. I
remained at the wheel, and anyone can perceive that my position made it
impossible to see what was going on when the door opened. Martiny was
nearest to me, and I am sure he never used a knife, so it must have
been Rossi. Is that correct?"
"I believe so, absolutely. What next?"
"Martiny said 'Vite, allez!' so I shoved in the clutch and made off at
top speed. In Fifth Avenue I glanced over my shoulder to look at Mr.
Hunter, and see whether or not he was struggling, but my friends alone
were visible in the back seat, so I believed they had put him on the
floor, and did not stop or look at them again until I reached De
Silva's house in Market Street. Then, to my annoyance, when I got down
to help carry in Mr. Hunter, I found blood on the step and the panel,
and the idiots told me what they had done. It is only fair to say that
De Silva is innocent of any part in the affair. He didn't even know
that we were bringing anyone to Rossi's room, and we took care that he
should be out at the time we counted on arriving at Market Street."
"You didn't attack Mr. Hunter sooner because your orders were to wait
until the last possible moment?"
"That is so."
Devar was unaware of any change in the manner of either of the
detectives, because he was watching Lamotte's livid face with a species
of fascinated horror, but Curtis, who had often been compelled to hold
similar inquiries into cold-blooded crimes committed by Chinese
coolies, found greater interest in observing Clancy. A subtle
exultation had suddenly danced into the diminutive Franco-Irishman's
expressive features when Market Street was first mentioned, and his
coal-black eyes blazed in their slits at the sound of that name, De
Silva.
A queer thought flitted through Curtis's mind, but he put it aside,
because Steingall was speaking again.
"Well, you got rid of your friends. Then what did you do?"
"The rest was simple. I cleaned the car in a hurry with a bit of oily
waste, took it to a yard which I have used at times, at an address
which I beg you to permit me to forget, changed the number plate, and,
at an hour which I deemed discreet, drove uptown in order to dispose of
the car by leaving it deserted near the garage from which it came. The
owner's house is on Riverside Drive. His name is Morris; he is absent
in Chicago on business, while I learnt that his chauffeur was ill."
A gasp of uncontrollable excitement from Devar drew all eyes to him.
"Great Jerusalem!" he cried. "Next house to my aunt's!"
"There's a mistake somewhere," broke in Brodie. "I know Mr. Morris's
car, and that isn't it."
Lamotte was positively annoyed that his word should appear to be
doubted.
"Messieurs," he said grandiloquently, "I assure you on my honor that I
am not misleading you."
Nor was he. The discrepancy was cleared up next day. The Morris
automobile was undergoing repairs, and the motor manufacturers had
supplied the gray car for use in the interim.
Steingall swept the matter aside impatiently.
"Go on," he said to the Frenchman. "You're taking a note of this?" he
added, glancing at police captain Evans.
"Got it," was the laconic reply.
"There is nothing else," said Lamotte. "I noticed that I was being
followed, and soon discovered that I could not shake off a more
powerful car. I was armed, but did not want to get into trouble on my
own account, and I knew that I would have to deal with three men. So I
decided to throw the car in the river, and trust to my wits for a means
of escape. I would have succeeded, too, had I been aware that there
was a fourth man in the party. From where I lay hidden beneath the
wharf I could only count the number of people who crossed to the barge.
I was unable to see them, so I included the chauffeur among the three.
I was wrong. Perhaps it is as well, because I meant to get away, and
would have fought. . . . That is all. . . . Will one of you give me a
cigarette?"
Devar produced a case, and in response to Steingall's nod, offered its
contents to the prisoner, who took two cigarettes; nor could he be
prevailed on to accept more. Despite his hang-dog looks he had an
undoubted air of refinement. Degeneracy had claimed him as its own,
yet some streak of a nobler heredity had struggled to exert its
influence, only to fail.
Steingall put no more questions, and Lamotte relapsed into silence,
smoking nonchalantly while the police captain's pen was scratching a
transcript of the shorthand notes.
Curtis caught Steingall's eye, and drew him aside.
"That fellow told the truth about the actual murder, I think" he said.
"My story coincides with his in every detail."
"I'm sure you are right," agreed the detective. "The odd thing is that
Clancy should have spotted him from your description telephoned to
headquarters. You remember Clancy was looking at a book of photographs
when I brought you to the Bureau?"
"Yes."
"He had found him then. Some time since, during the anarchist troubles
in Chicago, the French police sent us a lot of pictures, and this
fellow's was among them."
"Why didn't he ask me if I recognized him?"
"That is not pretty Fanny's way. Clancy never does what any other man
would do. He hates to have anyone verify an opinion he has once
formed. Had you said the photograph resembled the man you saw outside
the hotel Clancy would actually have begun to believe that he might be
mistaken."
"At any rate," said Curtis, smiling, "you two seem to have made
marvelous progress with the inquiry since a set of drunken stokers
broke up a harmonious gathering at Morris Siegelman's."
"We have done pretty well, but this"--and Steingall glanced at
Lamotte--"this goes far beyond anything we hoped for to-night, or this
morning, for the new day is growing old."
Curtis was puzzled. He realized that the capture of the chauffeur was
important, but it shrank into insignificance beside the connected
history of events which the detective seemed to have at his fingers'
ends.
"I suppose I must not ask questions," he said with a quizzical look
into the extraordinary eyes which had earned the chief of the Detective
Bureau the picturesque description coined by an enthusiastic reporter.
"No need," said Steingall. "Unless you are fed up with excitement, I
purpose taking you and Mr. Devar down town again, just as soon as Evans
has stopped slinging ink. Then you will appreciate the importance of
the things said here."
Curtis remembered that fleeting impression he had garnered while
watching Clancy during the Frenchman's statement, which, however,
appeared only to confirm the ample history already in Steingall's
possession. But again his thoughts were diverted from the matter by
Steingall's next words.
"I take it you have not called at the Plaza Hotel since we came away
together?" he said. "You certainly could not stop there during the
rush after the missing chauffeur, and I suppose McCulloch brought you
straight here after the arrest?"
"Yes. We passed the hotel on the outward journey, and I thought I saw
a light in--in my wife's suite, but we returned by a different route."
He fancied that the detective was about to explain a somewhat peculiar
question, but at that instant the police captain summoned Lamotte to
his desk.
"I'll read what I have written," he said, "and, if it is correct, you
will sign it. You need not sign unless you wish, but the statement
will be given in court, and, if you attest it now, may count in your
favor."
He recited an exact record of the Frenchman's words, and Lamotte took
the pen and scrawled his name. Then, at a nod from Evans, the
roundsman took the prisoner to a cell.
"By Jove! George, or perhaps I ought to say 'By George, Jove!' you did
that well," exclaimed Clancy, speaking for the first time since he had
entered the station-house, and addressing Steingall.
"I thought I was going to fail, but I stuck to my guns, and it came
off," was the modest if rather cryptic reply.
"We, too, have fought with beasts at Ephegus, so let us into this,"
cried Devar. "What came off, and where was the risk of failure? To my
mind, you had Lamotte in a double Nelson grip all the time."
"That's where you are in error, young man," said Steingall cheerfully.
"Sometimes it pays to pretend a knowledge you don't possess, and this
was one of the occasions. Mr. Clancy and I knew that somewhere in New
York were two Hungarians named Gregor Martiny and Ferdinand Rossi. We
knew that they were the men who killed Mr. Hunter, but we had no more
notion where they were hiding, or how to lay hands on them, than the
man in the moon."
"Great Scott. Haven't you arrested them?"
"No, sir. That is a pleasure deferred."
"Do you mean that you wanged that address out of the Frenchman?"
"That's about the size of it. I might have searched for a week for
Martiny and Rossi, but no one in East Broadway would have owned up to
seeing or even hearing of them."
"Still, you had their names pat?"
"Yes," said the detective, cutting the end off a cigar, "we had their
names, and we ascertained why they killed Hunter, or would have killed
any other person who tried to balk their scheme, but our information
stopped there."
Steingall, usually so communicative, evidently meant to keep to himself
the source of his inspiration, and, in a few minutes, Brodie was
driving the four men to the Police Headquarters.
They went to the Detective Bureau, and Steingall telephoned the Clinton
Street police station-house.
"You know De Silva's place in Market Street?" he said. "Well, within
ten minutes have half-a-dozen men gather quietly near the door. . . .
Two others should watch the back, and stop anyone making a bolt that
way. . . . Yes, of course, there may be shooting. I'll turn up in a
private auto, and stop off at the corner of East Broadway. . . . Leave
the rest to Clancy and myself. . . . No, only two, but they're hot
stuff."
He unlocked a drawer in a desk, and took out a pair of revolvers.
After examining them to make sure they were fully loaded, he handed one
to Clancy.
"I hope we shall not require them, Eugene, but there's no telling," he
said.
"I suppose I'm not allowed to shoot anybody, so you might lend me a
stick," suggested Devar.
"You and Mr. Curtis are remaining right here," said the detective.
"Oh, be a man, Steingall!" cried Devar disgustedly. "Don't play dog
when there's a chance of a real row. Look how I swung things your way
in Morris Siegelman's!"
"You might let us peep round the corner, at any rate," smiled Curtis.
Steingall meant to be obdurate, but yielded, and it was well that he
allowed his sympathies to sway his judgment, or there might have been
an early vacancy in the chief inspectorship.
At that middle hour of the night even New York's prowlers of the dark
had retired to their foul rookeries. The streets were almost deserted,
and the glare of gas and naphtha had vanished. The houses of the
Hungarian quarter were stark and gloomy now, many woe-begone in their
semi-dismantled aspect, and all sinister. When the automobile drew up
noiselessly at the corner of Market Street, a broad enough
thoroughfare, but broken and battered in appearance, the only visible
forms were those of three or four patrolmen, who were sauntering
aimlessly along the sidewalk. But there were eyes watching through