Chapter 10

"Oh, do we!" retorted Ellison, smartly. "Just stand back there." He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the trunk. An irresistible curiosity drew us forward again. Ellison seized the wrapping and jerked it forcibly apart. I turned my eyes away, and Mary screamed outright.

"Did you never see an anatomical manikin before?" asked Ellison, scornfully. "Made out of papier-mache, you know, and used for demonstrations in physiology before college classes. They used to come from Paris, but they're making them in Cleveland now, and better than the French ones. I tell you I'm mighty glad to get my 'old man' back; he's just out of the shop and cost me a hundred-dollar bill."

Mr. Detective Brownson walked over to the trunk, gazed intently at the manikin, and gingerly poked it once or twice in the ribs. He turned red and swallowed at something in his throat.

"So you wish to make a charge against these gentlemen?" he asked, with almost a note of appeal in his voice.

"Not I," answered Ellison, cheerfully. "It's all between friends, and they can settle the matter with me over a petit souper at Delmonico's. Good-day, officer."

How quickly the echoes of the strenuous life die away. After the storm and stress of those dreadful four days one would suppose that peace at any price were the one thing worth while. And for a month or more we were quite content with the humdrum of ordinary existence. And then just because a game of patience would not make--

X

The Upset Apple-Cart

Indiman was playing solitaire and I was idly looking on. It so happened that an important card, the ace of hearts, was buried, and Indiman had tried every legitimate means to get it out without success.

"You can't do that," I said, decidedly, as Indiman was about to make a move. He looked up, caught my eye fixed upon the game, and colored deeply. Then he frowned and swept the cards into a disorganized heap.

"I really believe that I was on the point of cheating myself," he said, soberly. "That argues a shameful flabbiness of the moral fibre, doesn't it? A 'brace' game of solitaire! What a hideous picture of degeneracy!"

"Lay it on the weather," I suggested. "These gray November days with their depressing atmosphere of finality may be held responsible for anything."

"Even my own pet extremity--the upsetting of an apple-cart. Really, I'm getting dangerously close to it. Let's go out for a walk."

Now, why did Tito Cecco, dealer in small fruits, choose this precise day and hour to halt his barrow at our corner? Push-carts are not allowed in Madison Avenue, anyway, and five minutes earlier or later he would have been moved on by the policeman on the beat. But in that mean time Esper Indiman and I had left the house. The cart piled high with red and yellow apples confronted us, and a dangerous glint came into Indiman's eye.

"Indiman!" I implored.

Too late! With the mischievous agility of a boy, Indiman seized the hub of the near wheel and heaved it into the air. A little ripple of apples swept across the asphalt roadway, then a veritable cascade of the fruit. The light push-cart lay bottom up, its wheels revolving feebly. Tito Cecco had become incapable of either speech or motion. Then he caught the glimmer of the gold piece in Indiman's fingers, and grabbed at it eagerly.

It is a poor sort of catastrophe that does not attract the attention of at least one pair of youthful eyes, and the vultures are famous for their punctuality in the matter of invitations to dinner. Where did all the boys come from, anyway; the street was jammed with them, and reinforcements were constantly arriving. Tito Cecco, having pouched Indiman's gold piece and righted his cart, had hastily departed. He had made a good thing out of the transaction, and explanations to policemen are awkward things--always so.

The pile of fruit had disappeared with incredible swiftness, but the boys themselves departed slowly, as though reluctant to leave a region of such extraordinary windfalls. One little chap had fared particularly well, for both his coat-pockets were stuffed and each fist grabbed a big specimen of the beautiful fruit. A young fellow, fresh-faced and country-looking, had been looking at the scene from a little distance down the street. Now he walked up and spoke to the small boy.

"Give you a nickel, bub, for one of the red ones. They look just like the apples up in Saco, Maine. Lord's sakes, how I wish I was there!"

The boy signified his willingness to make the bargain, but he wanted to give a sporting color to the transaction. "Right or left?" he asked, his hands held behind his back.

"Left, of course," answered the yokel.

"'Ain't I always been that?"

The boy handed over the apple, received the promised nickel in return, and departed with a joyous whoop. The young countryman held up the apple and looked at it sentimentally.

"Now, what under the canopy's that!" he exclaimed. There was a piece of paper tightly twisted about the stem of the fruit. He unfolded it carefully, for it could be seen that it bore a written message.

When a man with a complexion like a new red wagon turns pale it means something. Indiman and I stepped up, for we really thought that he was going to faint.

"Much obliged, gentlemen. I'm all right now," said the young chap. "But for the minute I was that struck. Say, gentlemen, you'll think I'm a liar, but it was my own girl, Miss Mattie Townley, who wrote that there letter and twisted it around an apple-stem. And she wrote it to me--me, Ben Day. What do you think of that?"

"This is a world of infinite chance," said Indiman, politely.

"Look for yourself. I don't mind, and neither would Mattie."

Indiman took the little scrawl of paper and I looked over his shoulder. It read:

"Ben Day, if you're not an altogether born fool, come back to Saco, Maine. I never meant a word of what I said--you KNOW that. M. T."

"S'pose you'd call it a lovers' quarrel," explained Mr. Ben Day. "I just piked out of Saco, Maine, like a bear with a sore head, and come down here to New York. For three months I 'ain't sent sign nor sound to the home people, but she was bound to catch up with me. And, by jinks! she just did. Wonder how many other Baldwin pippins are taking the glad tidings round the country. I'd give a nickel apiece for a million of 'em." An actual tear glistened in the young fellow's eye. It was impossible not to sympathize, and we both congratulated him heartily.

"Of course, you're going back to Saco at once?" said Indiman.

"If I could get the five-o'clock express there's a through connection up north. I'd do it, too"--his voice fell suddenly--"only for--"

"Only for what?"

"This," and he held out a small package that he had been carrying. It was box-shaped and neatly wrapped in light-brown paper. The parcel was addressed to S. A. Davidge, 32 Edgewood Road, Exeter, England, and it bore a pasted label that read, "From Redfield & Company, Silversmiths, Maiden Lane, New York City." It also carried the label of the Oceanic Express Company, marked, "Charges Paid" and "per S.S. Russia" with the package number, 44,281, in indelible pencil.

"Well?" said Indiman, interrogatively.

"You see, I was in a scrape on account of that thing, and I wanted to put the matter straight. Up to ten o'clock this morning I was in the employ of the Oceanic Express Company--one of the messengers, you know, sir, who go out with the wagons. It was our first trip of the day, and we had a big load of small stuff for the Russia, When I had unloaded and checked up my sheet, No. 44,281 was missing. I went back to the office, reported the loss, and was discharged on the spot--they're hard as nails on anything like that. Well, I went home pretty blue, for it's hard work finding a job nowadays, and I didn't know which way to turn. I'd been keeping bachelor hall with the driver of the wagon. He's a foreigner named Grenelli, and claims to be an Italian. Maybe so, but he looks more like a German, and he can talk half a dozen languages. I used to go with him to the socialist meetings over on the East Side, and the Tower of Babel isn't in it with those fellows.

"An anarchist? Oh, I don't think so. Liked to shoot off his mouth about the rights of man, and he was always down on taxes. But I shouldn't call him an anarchist. Why, he was the driver of an express wagon, and the two things don't jibe.

"I should have said that Grenelli had been suspended during the investigation into the loss, and of course we went home together. We talked the thing over from end to end, but we couldn't explain the disappearance of the package--neither of us. Of course, it was me who was the real responsible party in the business, and Grenelli, who naturally wanted to get back on his time, felt pretty grouchy about it. Finally, I got mad, told him to go to blazes, and cleared out of the house.

"Well, about an hour after that I went home, and met Grenelli coming out; he said that he was going down to the company stable. At two o'clock he come back all out of breath, and he had the package with him--yes, sir, that identical package that we'd been looking for. Told me that it had been found under the driver's seat wrapped up in one of the horse-blankets. Seems funny, too, for we had hunted through that wagon-body a dozen times.

"However, that makes no difference; we had the package, and I had just started down-town to turn it in when I stopped to look at the excitement here. Lucky for me, or I'd never had a bite of this particular red apple, the sweetest pippin that orchard ever grew. Excuse me, gentlemen, if I do the saphead act--by jinks! I FEEL like it."

"The sentiment does you honor, Mr. Day," said Indiman, gravely. "You ought to take that five-o'clock train."

"Wouldn't I like to!" sighed the enamoured youth. "But I can't go down to the company office in Bowling Green and get back in time to make it. It's three o'clock now."

"You would not care to intrust the delivery of the package to me?"

"Well, hardly," was the frank reply. "You see, mister, I've been living in New York for three months, now, and I've cut most of my eye-teeth. No offence, of course."

"Certainly not."

"You look straight goods, and I b'lieve I'd run almost any risk to catch that train--well, by jinks! here comes Grenelli now; that makes it all O.K."

I did not like the looks of the man who presently joined us in response to Ben Day's hail. I distrust, on principle, people with thin, bloodless lips and obliquely set eyes. Yet the fellow spoke pleasantly enough, and he readily undertook to clear young Day's name and reputation with his former employers. The boy handed over the parcel to Grenelli, and then, as he turned to go, begged the honor of shaking hands with Indiman and myself, a permission graciously granted. After all, we had borne no inconsiderable share in the later developments of his good-fortune. Suppose Indiman had NOT upset the apple-cart?

"And now," said Indiman, turning to Grenelli and speaking with great suavity, "I am going to ask the favor of a short interview. My house is only two numbers away."

Grenelli shook his head. "I've nothing to say to you--" he began, defiantly.

Indiman stepped quickly to the fellow's side, took his arm and pressed it closely. He said a few words in an undertone, and to my surprise Grenelli instantly submitted. We entered the house and went to the library on the first floor front. Indiman took from his side coat-pocket a cocked revolver and laid it on the table. So that was the kind of persuasion that it had been necessary to apply to secure Mr. Grenelli's attendance. One is apt to yield the point when he feels a pistol-barrel prodding him in the ribs, and it is no great trick to set a trigger-catch with the weapon in your pocket.

"Stand there," said Indiman, pointing to the far end of the table, and the man obeyed.

"And now, Grenelli," continued Indiman, bluntly, "I want the truth about this affair. Bah, man! don't begin to shuffle about like that. This isn't the original package delivered by Redfield & Company to the Oceanic Express for shipment to England. You know it and I know it, so we'll just acknowledge a true bill and go on with the evidence.

"A counterfeit, then, of the real thing. But why? That's what we're after now. Simple robbery? Or is there another reason why this particular package was intended to be shipped on the steamship Russia, sailing to-day at four o'clock sharp? You see the point, don't you?

"I admit, Grenelli, that you are a clever man. Since the dynamite outrage on the Icelandic six months ago great care has been taken in the supervision of shipments, for the fast steamers and the Oceanic Express Company require that the contents of every package shall be visibly made known to them before it can be accepted. But once it is inspected and officially labelled it goes through without further difficulty, the steamship people being content with the express company's guarantee.

"And now be kind enough to give me your very best attention. This morning, at ten o'clock, one of these officially registered packages disappeared from the wagon that you were driving. At half-past two this afternoon the parcel is returned to messenger Day, coming through your hands. Now, how long did it take you to make up this dummy--seal, stamp, and all? Of course, you had stolen what you needed for the forgery from the company office--all but the Redfield & Company label, and that you soaked off the original package and reaffixed to this one.

"It wasn't a plausible story that you told Day, but you knew the boy wouldn't be particular over trifles. All he cared about was the cloud upon his honesty. You figured that the package would be returned, perfunctorily examined for identification, and immediately sent on board the steamer. How much picrate or dynamite does it take to knock out the biggest steamship afloat? You could get enough of the stuff in a box of this size--couldn't you? And how were you going to set it off? Clockwork, of course. But why were you so stupid as to use a clumsy mechanism whose ticking could be heard a block away? Listen to it now."

In the succeeding silence the measured beat of the escapement was plainly audible. There was a sinister significance in the sound that I, for one, shall not easily forget. The man Grenelli paled and took an involuntary backward step.

"The steamship Russia" continued Indiman, in his calm, inflectionless voice, "was booked to carry an unusually distinguished company on this particular trip. The International Peace Congress has been in session in New York during the past fortnight. It adjourned Tuesday, and some thirty of the European delegates had engaged passage on this boat. Now, consider for a moment, Grenelli--what a catastrophe to the cause of universal peace should anything happen to the Russia! For example, the destruction of the ship and the consequent loss of life through the explosion of an infernal machine smuggled into the cargo! What confusion, what dismay, what terror! Then the poison of slow suspicion, the dull but deadly undercurrent of racial resentments, the question, growing daily more insistent, 'Who has done this thing?'

"It was an exquisite stroke of irony, Grenelli. I am connoisseur enough to admire really good technique wherever I find it. The nations assemble for a council of peace, and an invisible hand hurls a firebrand into the very centre of the august circle! Puff! The resolutions, with their well-rounded periods, go up into smoke and the tramp of armed men is heard throughout the world. Excellent! Oh, excellent, my good Grenelli!

"But chance always takes a hand in a round game, and at the psychological moment I come out of my house and upset an apple-cart--your apple-cart, my good Grenelli. What incredible bad luck!--to be bowled out by a shiny, red-cheeked pippin from Mattie Townley's orchard in Saco, Maine. You will remember a somewhat similar incident in the Garden of Eden several thousand years ago. Apples are certainly unwholesome fruit for the masculine digestion. But I beg your pardon--you were about to say--"

The man Grenelli glared at his tormentor. "What more do you want of me?" he asked, sullenly. "There's the police--why don't you turn me over to them and have done with it?"

"For the very sufficient reason, my dear Grenelli, that the evidence against you isn't strong enough. The package never reached the Russia, and how are we going to prove your intentions. Besides, in a matter of this sort, the question of tools is of small importance compared with the identity of the intelligence that employs them. Who and what is back of this affair? You, Grenelli, are going to tell me."

"Never!"

"Don't be too hasty. Think it over. We have plenty of time before us."

"I don't understand."

"You will presently. Thorp, my dear fellow, will you see that the servants are cleared out of the house at once. Let them all go to the show at the New Academy--at my expense, of course--and they needn't return until noon to-morrow. Make them understand that these are their orders. Then come back here, if you will."

When I returned to the library I found Grenelli seated at one end of the big centre-table and Indiman opposite him. In Indiman's right hand was a revolver, and the express package, addressed to S. A. Davidge, Exeter, England, lay on the table between them. The arrangement looked studied. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling--a well-founded one, as I was immediately to learn.

"Take my place for a moment," said Indiman. He went to the clock on the mantel-piece and stopped it. When he came back to the table he had his watch in his hand; he laid it face downward by the pistol. "Do you carry a timepiece?" he inquired of Grenelli. The prisoner shook his head. "Very good," continued Indiman. "We are now ready for our little experiment. Let me again have your best attention.

"The box containing the infernal machine lies on the table there. Mr. Grenelli knows at what hour the exploding mechanism is set to act; I do not. But seeing that the Russia sails to-day at four o'clock, we may assume that the explosion must be timed for to-morrow morning, when the vessel would be well out to sea. Certainly, not earlier; possibly some hours later. It makes no particular difference, for we are going to sit quietly here at the table with that curious box between us until something happens. Either Mr. Grenelli is going to give me that information or--he isn't. But in the latter case it will be of no further use to either of us. Do I make myself quite clear?"

The ticking of the mechanism concealed in the box sounded like the blows of a trip-hammer. Grenelli lit a cigarette with a poor affectation of bravado. "I can stand as much of it as you can," he said, insolently.

"You have the advantage of KNOWING how much," retorted Indiman. "But we'll wait and see who's the best man. And in the mean time, Thorp, old chap, I think you'd better cut your stick. Just bring up some biscuits and a bottle of Scotch, and we'll get along as comfortably as you please."

But I declined to be sent away in this fashion for all that I was horribly afraid. "I can't sit down at that table," I explained, "but I'll keep coming in and out of the room as the spirit moves me. Now, don't say a word; I've made up my mind."

"Well, I sha'n't forget it," said Indiman, simply. Then, in an undertone: "As a matter of absolute fact, the fellow is a coward, and he'll weaken at the end. There isn't the slightest danger--be sure of that."

Hour by hour the early evening dragged away, and then began that interminable night. I spent most of the time in the dining-room at the back, smoking and pretending to read. Twice the book slipped from my hand, and I woke with a horrid start from my cat-nap. Then I would go softly to the library door and peep in. Always the same tableau--the two men sitting opposite each other, alert, silent, watchful, and between them the shaded lamp and that little box lying in the circle of its light.

At about four o'clock I came in and mended the fire in the grate, for the house was growing chilly. Indiman looked over at me and smiled brightly. "Well, it's good to be out of the old ruts, isn't it?" he said. "'Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay,' as some one has truthfully remarked. He was a philosopher, that fellow. Wish we had him here with us to-night; we'd teach him a thing or two more about what living really is."

After that I walked up and down the dining-room floor pretty steadily until the dawn began to steal over the chimney-pots of the houses at the back. It wasn't a pretty sky that the light revealed, dull and streaky looking, with a suggestion of coming rain. I stood looking at it in an absent-minded, miserable sort of stupor; then I heard Indiman calling me.

"I'm out of cigars," he explained. "There's a box in the buffet; and just put out the lamp, will you."

Grenelli looked haggard in the gray light that streamed into the room as I drew the curtains. He started, too, when he saw that the day had come--it was quite perceptible.

"I should like to know the time," he growled. "It's only fair."

"To be sure," assented Indiman, and he pushed his watch, face upward, into the middle of the table. The dial indicated half-past seven, at which I was somewhat surprised, for I had not thought it so late. But my own watch had run down, and it will be remembered that Indiman had stopped the mantel-clock the night before. Half-past seven it was, then, for all that the hour again struck me as being rather advanced for a cloudy morning in mid-November. And evidently Grenelli thought so too. He could hardly suppress the exclamation that rose to his lips as he glanced at the dial.

Ten minutes passed, and then Grenelli spoke.

"If I tell you what you want to know," he said, "am I to be allowed to leave the house at once?"

"Yes."

"And I am to be safe from arrest? At least, sufficient time will be given--"

"Bah!" interrupted Indiman, scornfully. "Come and go as you will. I can break you like a rotten stick whenever it pleases me."

Grenelli drew in his breath with a vicious hiss. "At five minutes to eight I will tell you," he said, in a loud, overbearing voice.

"Very good," answered Indiman, placidly.

But the fellow's courage deserted him at the pinch, in accordance with Indiman's prediction. He sat there dry-lipped and wet-browed, a half-burned cigarette in his yellow-stained fingers, and his eyes fixed immovably on Indiman's watch. It was barely a quarter to the hour when he gave in. He wanted to cut the corner as closely as he could, but his nerve was gone. "I will tell you--" he began.

He stopped as abruptly as he had started. Suddenly the ticking of the clock-work had ceased, and it was succeeded by a pause infinitesimally brief and withal infinitely extended. Grenelli half rose from his chair, his hands beating backward at the air. Then came a curious premonitory whir of the hidden mechanism. The metallic rattle of the gong was magnified in my ears to the dimensions of a roll of thunder; then I saw that Indiman had torn the wrappings from the box and had opened it. There was no mistaking the object that lay within--a common American alarm-clock. Grenelli looked at it, wide-eyed, then he rolled off his chair in some sort of a fit, and Indiman and I were left to stare each other out of countenance.

"Plain enough, I think," said Indiman. "There WAS another box containing the infernal machine, but Grenelli made up the dummy so successfully as to deceive even himself. He got the two mixed up, and this, the original and harmless package, was the one that should have reached the Russia if Ben Day hadn't stopped to buy a red apple. Of course, it was the ticking of the clock escapement that misled him--and me.