The sinister mark
into my old bean that there was something more--a purpose--I don't know
what.... But I'm going to find out. The thing's got me going. I'm going
to find out, O'Malley, if it takes a leg!"
CHAPTER XV
THE DUPLICATE KEY
It was a dark night, hot and close, with a feel of thunder in the air.
The big arc lights near the arch in Washington Square made spots of
copperas green on the close-trimmed grass and flecks of emerald on the
full summer foliage of the trees. Above, the sky was velvet black,
thick and solid, like a pall, except for the faint, pulsating glow of
heat lightning over in the west.
In the short length of Waverly Place the shadows lay deep, like those
at the bottom of a cañon. At the far end shone the lights of Broadway,
dim here in comparison with its upper reaches of flashing electricity.
An occasional car banged and rumbled on its way north or south, serving
to accentuate the silence of the short cross street.
It was nearing midnight when Peter Clancy alighted from the stage at
Fifth Avenue and made his way eastward. When he reached the corner of
University Place, he whistled softly, five notes in a minor key. That
simple little call was as familiar to every man on his staff as the
notes of a robin to a country-bred boy.
Immediately a shadow, among the shadows on the south side of the
street, moved toward him. Peter advanced quietly.
"That you, Mr. Clancy?" A voice from the moving shadow, and as it came
closer, Peter could just distinguish Rawlins's face.
"Anything stirring, Rawlins?"
"Not a damn thing," the man replied, disgustedly. "This is a hell
of a job to put a live man on, Mr. Clancy. Been hangin' around here
for weeks, and not a soul to speak to but Sullivan and the dago over
there----"
"Angelo swallowed the story of your being a plain-clothes watchman for
the bank here all right, didn't he? He hasn't any suspicion----"
"Not a suspish," said Rawlins, confidently. "He and I are good friends,
all righty--and I can't help being sorry for the poor devil. He's such
a fool, and he's up against it, sure enough. He ought to send that wife
of his to a hospital."
"Those people haven't any sense about that sort of thing," commented
Peter. "But never mind that now, Rawlins. Just slip over and see if the
coast is clear. I'm going up to the apartment for a bit, and I'm not
looking for an excited audience. Beat it over, and give me the high
sign if he's out of the way."
Peter waited in the dark entrance next to the American Bank, which was
directly opposite number Ninety-nine. He saw Rawlins's short, wiry
figure silhouetted against the dim light which burned in the hallway
of the house across the way; saw him disappear in the darkness at the
other end of the passage.
It seemed a long time to Peter's impatience before Rawlins again
appeared and, like a shadow, flitted across the street. He was out of
breath when he reached Peter, and chuckling softly to himself.
"What's up?" asked Peter, sharply. "What are you laughing at, Rawlins?
Let me in on the joke."
"Gee!" exclaimed Rawlins under his breath. "I'll bet the Federal
authorities would give a good deal to have heard what I just did. Say,
Clancy, did you ever hear that the dagoes in this old burg have got a
real, honest-to-God lottery going strong under cover somewhere?"
"Oh, there are always rumours like that going around," said Peter,
carelessly. "The Chinese and the French and the Italians. What's that
got to do with the price of cheese?"
"Why," said Rawlins, still chuckling, "there's a man over there with
Angelo in his little front room--I gum-shoed through the hall and part
way down the stairs, and I heard 'em talking. Angelo is crazy because
he's lost some money on the thing, poor devil, and he talked louder
than I guess he knew. They both spoke Italian, but you know I'm a shark
at lingoes, Clancy," with evident pride.
"Yes, I know," said Peter, impatiently, "but we aren't here to sleuth
out things for the Government. I'd have been interested awhile back,
but I've got something else on my chest now. D'you think Angelo is
likely to come up in the next few minutes? That's all I want to know."
"I should say, from the start he's got, that he'd go on cussin' his
friend for some time," answered Rawlins, grinning in the dark at his
recollection of the little Italian's language. "If you chase over right
away, you'll make it without any trouble. Angelo is what you might call
occupied just about now."
"All right," said Peter, softly.
Swift and quiet as a cat, he crossed the street, passed through the
gas-lighted hall, and up the stairs.
There was no gas burning on the third landing, from which he deduced
that the apartment was still unoccupied. The fourth floor also was
perfectly dark and Peter had to flash his electric hand-light upon the
door to fit his duplicate key.
The lock grated with an uneasy sound and the door swung slowly inward.
Still, black darkness, which could almost be felt, confronted him.
Peter stepped across the threshold, and without a sound, carefully shut
the door.
The closed rooms, after the oppressive heat of the outer world, seemed
damp and cold, and Peter shivered slightly. In his rubber-soled shoes
he made no sound as he advanced into the living room, flashing his
light carefully about to avoid colliding with anything.
There was little fear of being seen from the outside, since the
buildings opposite were used for business purposes, and empty at this
time of night, but Peter was taking no chances. His first move was to
pull down the dark shades at the windows.
Remembering the way the outer halls were lighted, he struck a match
to light the gas, and found, to his surprise, that the apartment was
equipped with electricity. He had not noticed it before, or if he had,
it had made no impression on his then preoccupied mind. He saw nothing
significant in it now--was glad of the more brilliant light in which to
make his investigation--that was all. There was a candle lamp over on
the desk and a big, shaded lamp upon the table. Peter switched on the
smaller lamp.
In the quiet light which illumined the room he could see that it was
just as he had left it over three weeks before. A little dust had
drifted in through the chinks of the windows, filming the polished
mahogany of table, chairs, and couch, but otherwise there was no
change, except that the scarf, which had proved an open sesame to a
world of anxiety, had been removed. But Peter knew all about that. He,
himself, had taken it to VanDorn and Sawyer to have the stain upon it
analyzed. They found it to be, what he felt sure from the first it was,
human blood. The scarf lay, now, in the safe at his office.
Peter went into the bedroom and pulled down the shade, lest some
wakeful person in the houses on the street above might catch a gleam
from the light which he had left burning in the living room, and become
curious. Then, softly, he crept into the dining room and lowered
the blinds there, then into the kitchen, where he noted that the
broken pane of glass had been replaced according to Morris's careful
instructions to Angelo on the day it was discovered. He had felt, with
Morris, that it was an unnecessary risk to leave it in a condition in
which any sneak thief might have entered from the fire-escape with
perfect ease.
Peter drew the dark blue blind down to the sill, and flashed the cold
eye of his hand-torch about, looking for a light fixture. He found
it in the shape of an old-fashioned gas chandelier with two burners,
suspended from the ceiling. He lit them both. The gas burned high, with
a soft, secret hiss. It sounded loud in the remote stillness of the
place, and automatically Peter lowered it to the point of silence.
Then, supplementing the light from above with the clear gleam of his
torch, he searched the kitchen with microscopic thoroughness, but found
nothing which could be supposed, in any remote way, to have a bearing
on his problem. The two significant details, the fallen glass upon the
outside of the sill and the sliver of ice in the sink, which he had
noted on that perplexing Monday, having disappeared, the kitchen had no
other revelations to offer.
He proceeded to the dining room, with a like result. Except for the
disarrangement of the side-board already noted, the room was evidently
just as it ordinarily appeared when tenanted. Again he noticed that
there was but one chair drawn up to the small round mahogany dining
table. The rest were standing tidily against the walls, and he
wondered if only one person had partaken of the last meal which was
eaten in that room.
Passing into the hall, he sent the brilliant eye of his flash back and
forth across the dark waxed floor. It was thinly covered now with a
light, feathery dust. It would blow into the little gray rolls that the
hospital nurses call "kittens" if the air was let in.
"Gad, I wish I could open the windows," thought Peter. "The air's as
dead as----"
He paused before the open door of the small storeroom, still looking
at the floor. There was one spot here where the dust had collected
thickly. A big round clot of it lay there and several smaller spots.
Peter, with a slight faint creeping of the flesh, stepped carefully
across this part of the floor and entered the storeroom.
The only window here gave upon a narrow light-shaft across which was
the window of the bath adjoining. There were only thin muslin curtains
at these windows, but at this midnight hour probably no one would
notice the light at the top of the shaft.
"Anyhow, I'll have to risk it," said Peter, half aloud, "I've got to
make sure about this room."
There was only gas here, as in all the rear of the apartment, but the
flow was good and the light fairly strong. Again Peter noted the slight
abrasions of the wall where he concluded the other trunk had stood,
the trunk which Bill, the taxi driver, had found so heavy, the trunk
which Anne Blake had taken away with her to a destination which still
remained veiled in mystery.
The size of the trunk was--Peter measured from one little sharp
indentation in the wall to another--three feet four or five inches--and
from the floor, approximately twenty-four inches.
"Big enough," Peter muttered to himself. "Big enough for--almost
anything."
He folded up his pocket rule and turned to the large brass-bound trunk
which had been left standing against the wall.
"Makes me feel a bit like a burglar, but it's all in the day's work,"
thought Peter, as he knelt beside it and inspected the lock. "I guess
I've got you," his thought ran on, "you're easy," and he took a large
bunch of small keys from his pocket, and after a few minutes' work,
found one that fitted.
A sharp crack of the lock, and Peter lifted the lid. The odour of
camphor, in a great whiff, filled his nostrils, almost choking him. He
drew back and took a long breath.
"Gosh, they've used plenty of it," he exclaimed, half aloud. "I'd be
sorry for the poor devil of a moth that took a chance with that!"
Carefully he lifted up the ends of the various articles in the trunk,
in such a way as not to disarrange them. Except for a pair of woollen
blankets at the bottom, there was nothing there but winter clothing of
various sorts. Extremely various sorts, Peter saw, for first there was
a magnificent evening wrap trimmed with almost priceless fur. Beneath
it lay a plain, rough, dark, heavy winter cloak rubbed a little at the
cuffs and collar, as with constant wear. There were carriage boots,
satin, lined with fur, and next them, wrapped in newspaper, was a pair
of high, fleece-lined goloshes, old and shabby. Peter looked at the
date on the newspaper.