Chapter 12
I looked at the immovable figures of two footmen at the door and then walked out to breakfast. An excellent meal it was, although I recognized that the food was only an ingenious variation upon the theme of the night before; that mysterious substance resembling isinglass was the basis of everything set before me. It was the same with luncheon and again at dinner. And, as on the previous night, it was an empty chair that confronted me. Well, what did it matter, after all. Can you even imagine what Schubert's "Linden-Tree" might be when perfectly sung?
Is it an hallucination, then, that possesses me--some subtle disturbance of the nerve-centres sapping the sources of will-power, enfeebling even the physical energies? I do not know. Sometimes I am ashamedly conscious that I do not greatly care. It is now a week since I entered this house, and I have made but one attempt to reassert my personal rights. Yesterday a sudden passion of resolution seized me; at all hazards I must break the bonds imposed upon me by this invisible enchantress. As I passed the door leading to the red drawing-room I put my fingers in my ears--Ulysses and the sirens. But when I reached the lower hall I walked plump into Dr. Gonzales, who fixed me with a penetrating look. "Go back!" he said, authoritatively. "The Lady Allegra sings--and for you." I listened; it was, "Ah, fors e lui."
I divide my time between the library on the third floor and the red drawing-room, where the strange beauty of the opal-tinted mirror holds me possessed for hours together. Remember that the Lady Allegra still maintains her tantalizing role of inviolable seclusion. It is through her voice alone that she impresses her personality upon my senses. That seems ridiculous, does it not? But then you have not heard her sing "Ah, fors e lui."
Yet, after all, the end came quickly. I shall be equally succinct in my chronicle of the events leading up to it.
As usual I had dined alone, and had afterwards submitted to the customary examination at the hands of Dr. Gonzales. Why he should deem it necessary to take my pulse and temperature and then ascertain my weight and power of grip with such scrupulous exactitude I never troubled to inquire. Indeed, it seemed such a puerile proceeding that I have hitherto refrained from even mentioning it. To-night he seemed ill-pleased with the results of his investigation. "You are losing weight," he said, severely, "and you don't begin to grip within ten pounds of what you registered a week ago."
"What does it matter?" I answered, as indifferently as I felt.
"You ought to eat more. No steam without fuel."
"I am not hungry."
"Bah!" he snorted, indignantly. "It is always the same story. Another failure! But no, I will not suffer it. Sooner than that I will have you penned and stuffed as though you were a Strasburg goose." But I only laughed at his petulance and walked on to the drawing-room.
I laughed, I say, and yet I had begun vaguely to realize that something was wrong. My head felt strangely light. I stumbled over a corner of the rug, and would have fallen out of pure weakness if I had not caught at the table for support. My respiration seemed more rapid than usual and the sweat from the slight exertion beaded my forehead. Then I forgot everything but that the Lady Allegra had begun to sing.
The desire, the impulse, they had crystallized into resolution. I would wait no longer. This very night the walls of the fortress should fall, unveiling the secret of this insolent loveliness, the desire of all the world. Ah, my lady Allegra, was it chance alone that led you to choose Isolde's "Liebestod" for this the supreme enchantment?
The music fell away into nothingness and I stepped forward, my hand on the knob of the folding-doors that led to the front room. I knocked twice--firmly, insistently. "Open!" I cried, and immediately the door-knob yielded to my touch.
"Stop!"
Dr. Gonzales stood at the hall entrance to the drawing-room. I saw something that gleamed like polished metal in his uplifted hand. Then he fell back and disappeared. It seemed as though some invisible force behind the portiere had taken sudden and irresistible possession of him. What did I care. I went forward and into the room, absolutely empty save for an upright cabinet of mahogany placed on a central pedestal. It was tall enough to conceal a person standing behind it, but it was not the Lady Allegra who came forward to meet me.
"Indiman!" I said, weakly. "Esper Indiman!"
"The carriage is waiting," he said. "Come."
"Never!" I retorted, passionately. "You don't understand--the Lady--Allegra--"
Well, I suppose I must have fainted from sheer inanition, and so Indiman explained it himself that next morning.
"You had been half starved for over a week, and no wonder you keeled over. No; you can't have another mouthful of that beef-steak. You'll have to wait for luncheon."
I sank back among the cushions of the couch rather resentfully. "Well, at least you can go on and tell me," I said.
"Certainly. There are cranks of all degrees, as you know. It was your luck to fall into the hands of one of the king-pins of the confraternity--Dr. Ferdinand Gonzales, alias Moses the Second.
"He wanted a new subject for his experiments upon the physical regeneration of the human race, and he caught you in his drag-net. It was a close call for you, old chap."
"I don't understand."
"You have been starving to death for ten days, and yet eating three meals a day right along. Nothing peculiar about that, eh?"
"It WAS rather curious stuff. It looked like isinglass."
"Perhaps it is. All I care about is the fact that the food you have been eating doesn't contain a particle of nourishment for the human system. But Moses the Second imagined that he had invented, or rather rediscovered, the one perfect nutriment for the race--nothing less than manna."
"Manna!"
"Don't you remember the manna in the wilderness, the children of Israel, and the forty years they fed upon it. Dr. Gonzales, who was really a fine chemist before he went dotty, got the idee fixe that all human ills were due to improper food. He tackled the problem, at first scientifically, but later on he had a vision that he was really the reincarnation of the Prophet Moses. Moses and manna--the connection is obvious and the secret was soon in his possession. He manufactured the stuff in his own laboratory and lived on it himself--at least to the verge of physical extinction. Then he went gunning for subjects, and you know the rest. The rubbish fills you up without nourishing you, and what you lived on was really stimulants alone--the wine and coffee."
"But will you tell me--how did you chance to find--"
"For the first few days I didn't dream of interfering--it was your own adventure. But on Monday--that's yesterday, you know--I determined to look things up a bit. So I walked into No. 231 and scared Mr. Red-Fez into a few plain truths. His real name is Dawson, you know."
"Yes."
"It was simply an immensely improved sort of phonograph that Gonzales had invented. None of the harshness and squeakiness of tone that you associate with the ordinary instrument. Partly a new method of making the records and partly a system of qualifying chambers that refine and purify the tones. It is wonderful enough to deceive anybody, and, of course, he had all his records ready to hand."
"Then the Lady Allegra, the Lady Allegra--"
"'Vox et preterea nihil,'" quoted Indiman. He left the room quietly, and I lay there on the lounge staring up at the ceiling. "'Vox et preterea nihil.'"
Two months have passed and I am slowly recuperating in body and mind. But there are some things not to be forgotten--for instance, "Ah, fors e lui," when sung by the most beautiful voice in all the world.
Indiman proposes that we shall go to the Utinam Club, dine, and spend the night. Well, we don't often indulge in that rather questionable amusement, although we are accustomed to use the club freely throughout the daytime. All the more reason, then, that once in a while--I need a distraction and there are some interesting psychological deductions--But hang casuistry; it is enough to say that we did go.
It is undeniably pleasant to be sitting here in the club dining-room sharing a ruddy duck and a bottle of burgundy. Yes, and to feel the cares, the disappointments, the burdens of life dropping off one by one; to be able to dismiss them with a nod as one gives an unfortunate beggar his conge. Ills that one need not bear; evils that it is no longer necessary to endure--they have all been eliminated by the simple process of excluding from the spectrum the ultra blue-and-violet rays. A palpable evasion, of course. Call it immoral, if you will, and I shall not lift the gauntlet. Why should we quarrel over phrases when it is only required to return thanks to the good Dr. Magnus for his beneficent discovery? That is enough for me at least. Carpe diem, or, more precisely, noctem.
It was Dr. Magnus himself who later on introduced us to Chivers in the common room--Chivers, a little man of Semitic physiognomy, with a hard, knobbed face and a screw of black beard. He addressed himself effusively to Indiman, while the doctor and I remained spectators, silent but interested.
"A dealer in adventures, a specialist in the grotesque--ah, I like that, Mr. Indiman. The rest of us"--this with a gesture inexpressibly mean and fawning--"prefer to haggle over the lion's skin after it has been cured and dressed. It's a mere question of temperament, dear sir."
"What have you to say to me?" inquired Indiman, abruptly. I could see that he wanted to kick him.
"I have an adventure--of the first class. I desire to dispose of it."
"Yes."
"A noble, a surpassing adventure. Moreover, a commercial opening that is not to be despised--fifty per cent on your capital every six months."
"Yes."
"I offer you, then, my well-established business of adjuster of averages, good-will and office fixtures included."
"But I never even heard of such a profession. I know nothing about averages and their adjustment."
"What difference! It is the adventure that particularly concerns you, is it not? The business--pouf! it runs itself." "And the terms?"
"I make them ridiculously easy. You are to take over the business, including the lease of my offices in the Barowsky Brothers' bank building, William H. Seward Square. In return for this accommodation I am prepared to pay you the sum of ten thousand dollars." Mr. Chivers grinned cheerfully as he concluded this astounding proposition. He pulled ten new one-thousand-dollar bills from his waistcoat-pocket and laid them on the table.
Indiman regarded the little man thoughtfully. "You have been in business for your health?" he inquired, with an affectation of polite interest.
"You have hit it exactly," returned the imperturbable Chivers. "I was pretty rocky when I first went to William H. Seward Square. But the air in that Yiddish country--wonderful, dear sir. Regard me; punch, poke, pound where and how you like. Sound as a bell you'll find me. Now I pass on. I yield place to you. The honor, dear sir, is mine."
"I confess that I am interested," said Indiman. "The conditions are simply--"
"Your personal day and night tenancy of the chambers in the Barowsky Building for a period of not less than three months. I should have explained that the rooms really form a bachelor's suite, all furnished, of course."
"There are papers to sign?"
"Only the assumption of the office lease, and I'll give you a bill of sale for the furniture." Mr. Chivers laid the documents before Indiman; the latter glanced them over and drew out his fountain-pen. A quick look, one of satisfaction and understanding, passed between Chivers and Dr. Magnus. I caught it and tried to convey a warning to my friend. But he had already affixed his signature to the lease of the offices in the Barowsky bank building. Chivers did the same for the bill of sale.
Indiman gathered up the ten one-thousand-dollar bills and stuffed them into his pocket. "Want a receipt?" he asked.
"It is not necessary."
"Well, at least, we must have a bumper to celebrate the conclusion of the transaction. Waiter."
We took a cab in the gray of the dawning hour and drove home. As might have been predicted, my spirits had dropped to the zero-point again.
"I don't like it--frankly, I don't, old man. What if it should be a trap?"
Indiman laughed heartily. "Why, of course, it's a trap," he said. "That's plain as a pike-staff, whatever a pike-staff itself may be. It's the particular kind of a trap that interests me. The why and the wherefore."
Arrived at the house, Indiman handed a bill to the driver and we ascended the steps. But the cabman seemed dissatisfied with his treatment. "Hey, there!" he called once, and then again. Indiman turned impatiently.
"Well, what is it?" he asked
"You can see for yourself, guv'nor. A mistake, ain't it?"
It was one of the thousand-dollar bills that the honest cabby was holding up. What a phenomenon in the way of a hackman! And yet the New York night-hawks are no fools and thousand-dollar bills are easy to trace. Indiman gave the man fifty dollars as a reward of virtue and he was more than satisfied. But something still remained on his conscience thus agreeably stimulated.
"'Scuse me, guv'nor," he went on, "but here's another little job in the same line of business. I drove a gentleman to your club early in the evening, and he must have left it accidental in the cab. Maybe you know him."
It was a plain white envelope bearing the typewritten address:
Mr. Orrin Chivers, Nos. 13-15 Barowsky Chambers, Seward Square, New York.
The envelope had been opened, but the enclosure still remained in it.
"Thank you," said Indiman. "I'll take charge of it." The cabman touched his hat and drove away.
We went up to the library and proceeded to examine the treasure trove. It consisted of a long strip of thin bluish paper less than a quarter of an inch in width and containing a succession of apparently arbitrary and unmeaning characters written in ink. I reproduce a section of the strip, which should make my description more intelligible.
Indiman looked at the hieroglyphics musingly. "Important--if true," he murmured.
XII
The Adjuster of Averages
It was on December 21st that Indiman took up his tenancy of the offices in the Barowsky Building. I should have been glad to have accompanied him, but he would not have it. It was the dealer's hand at bridge and must be played alone. And owing to the accident of a slight attack of grippe it was some ten days later before I was able to call upon him in his new quarters.
William H. Seward Square has its unique features. Lying in the heart of the East Side, it is outside the regular lines of north and south travel. There are thousands of otherwise well-informed New-Yorkers to whom its very name is unknown. And yet it is an important political centre, the capital of the Yiddish country, and the recipient of many special favors at the hands of a paternal municipality. There are still streets in the up-town districts whose pavement is the antiquated Belgian blocks or even cobble-stones, but none in Yiddishland; here everything is asphalted. You may trust the district leader to take care of his own.
A fine, stone building forms the principal architectural feature of the square on the west side. It contains the free baths and would be a credit to any part of the city. Most of the remaining space is given over to the children for a playground. There is a semi-enclosed gymnasium for the boys, hand-ball and tether-ball courts, a separate enclosure for the girls and smaller children--in a word, every form of amusement and exercise that is practicable in a public institution of comparatively limited area. The children enjoy it, too. They come in droves, and the swings and flying rings are in constant use.
It is like going to a foreign country. The shop signs, written in Hebrew characters, suggest a combination of horseshoes and carpet-tacks, and you may walk for blocks without hearing an English word spoken. Ask your whereabouts of a street boy and he will quite likely turn pale and edge away. He does not understand. You are an alien, a foreign devil.
The Barowsky Brothers' bank building is the show-place of the district. It is a staring white structure covered with gilt business signs and adorned with abortive minarets that give it an air distinctly Oriental. The entrance hall and the banking-rooms are sumptuous. They recall the Arabian Nights and the word-painting of a circus poster. Mirrors, gilding, mosaics--it is all a dream of luxury and impresses one with a realizing sense of the financial standing of the Barowsky Brothers. You must have a good front in the Yiddish country if you expect to handle other people's money.
Esper Indiman, adjuster of averages, occupied a suite of rooms on the fifth floor. I proceeded thither and found him in. We sat down and smoked amicably.
"How is business?" I asked. "Have you adjusted many averages to-day? And, by-the-way, I'm rather taken with the title of your new trade. 'Adjuster of averages'--there's an imposing note of omnipotence in the words."
"It's a perfectly legitimate occupation. You'll find it listed in the business directory."
"Of course, and never mind the details. I'm satisfied with its face value, a brevet of vice-gerency. God knows there are plenty of averages to be adjusted in this weary old world."
"Well, I may have some accounts to balance before I take down my sign," said Indiman, with a grim little smile. "I'm glad you came in to-day, Thorp; I've been wanting to have a talk with you."
"Fire away," I answered, flippantly.
"Come into the back room," and he led the way.
The suite ran through the building. There was a good-sized room facing on the square, fitted up with ordinary office furniture; back of that a bath-room, and then the rear office, which had been turned into a bachelor's living-room. There were bookcases, rugs, pictures, a big mahogany writing-table, an open fireplace, easy-chairs--everything to make life comfortable. "And the couch over there is my bed," concluded Indiman. "I'm pretty well fixed, you see."
"Decidedly so."
"Intellectual diversion in abundance; even the artistic element is not wholly wanting."
He stepped over to a table in the far corner; a phonographic machine of some kind stood upon it. Indiman touched a lever, and again I heard that unforgettable melody, "Ah, fors e lui," and in her voice--her voice! A cry escaped me. Indiman pushed me back into my chair. "Be good enough to listen," he said, and I obeyed.
"While you have been laid up," he began, "I have been amusing myself with a little theory building. I had taken the liberty to sequestrate the remarkable phonographic apparatus of your quondam friend Dr. Gonzales; in fact, I carried it away in the same carriage with your honorable self from the house of the Philadelphia 'quizzing-glass.' The police didn't notice--that was all.
"Dr. Gonzales was a genius, and his instrument is a revolution in phonographs--purity of tone, perfect enunciation, and all that. But the really interesting thing (to me as to you) was not the machine, but the records that it used. To whom belonged the voice that these little disks and cylinders so faithfully reproduced? It was a real woman who had poured the passion and sorrow of life into this insentient mechanism. And the medium had been sufficient; your heart had responded.
"You were my friend, and I could not be indifferent to aught that concerned you. We are, neither of us, sentimental, so the bare statement of the fact is sufficient. You were on your back, and so it was my part to go to work. I did.
"It is unprofitable business looking for a needle in a hay-stack when you can buy a packet of the best helix No. 8's at any shop for a nickel. But after spending a blank week interviewing the makers of phonographic records I began to feel doubtful of my economic theory. Nowhere could I find the slightest trace of this particular job of record-making. And then one day I ran across a chap named Hugens, who was in the business in a small way. His place was three blocks east of the Bowery, but I've forgotten the name of the cross street.
"It was the usual experience at first--no information--but something told me that the man was lying. Finally, I pretended to give up the inquiry and left the shop. It was after dark on a snowy January afternoon, and I started to walk over to the Madison Avenue cars. I dawdled along purposely so as to give the telephone time to get in its work, and the affair turned out exactly as I had foreseen. At Elm Street a couple of fellows jostled against me, and when the mix-up was over the parcel containing my two sample records was gone. That was all that had been wanted; my watch, pin, and money had not been touched.
"It was plain, then, that some one had an interest in preventing my tracing up these particular records. Not Hugens, of course, but his client, whoever he might be. Well, at least, it made the case more interesting--yes, and more promising. Two nights later the house in Madison Avenue was entered by second-story men while I was at dinner. But the records and repeating apparatus had been removed to the safe-deposit vaults, and my unknown opponent had drawn another blank.
"Getting exciting, wasn't it? And then for a month or more nothing happened. You continued to convalesce and I kept on thinking.
"This impersonal opposition--well, there had been something of the same sort once or twice before. You remember, in particular, the affair of the private letter-box. A devilish intelligence had been at work there, and some day, as I told you, the mystery would be cleared up.
"Then did we ever know who Mr. Aram Balencourt really was? An agent of the 'Forty'? Well, perhaps so, but I can't help thinking that there was always a bigger man behind him. The same conclusion would apply to the case of that poor wretch Grenelli in the affair of the Russia and the box of dynamite. Some one with brains pulled the strings to make all these marionettes dance.
"Finally, there was your own adventure with the amiable Dr. Gonzales. Did he ever remind you, even indefinitely, of some one else whom you had known? Think carefully. Well, it doesn't matter. I was deceived myself, and when I afterwards went to the Bellevue insane pavilion to make some inquiries I found that he had long since been discharged as cured.
"There was just one hypothesis--the existence somewhere of a strong and alert personality; a genius along mechanical and scientific lines; a creature of abnormally developed mentality and correspondingly defective ethical nature; an intelligence absolutely passionless and ruthless, playing the game entirely for its own sake, and equally indifferent to the end and to the means used to attain it--in other words, a monster. Quite an elaborate theory, you observe; but the difficulty was to fit it to the individual. Looking back on the problem, I accuse myself of being rather slow-witted. Right under my eyes and yet only an accident opened them.
"Well, you recall the night at the Utinam when we met Mr. Chivers and I accepted his very liberal proposition to become an adjuster of averages. Of course, it was a trap, but what connoisseur of the adventure grotesque could refuse such a bait? All I wanted to know was with whom I was expected to match wits.
"Of course, the thousand-dollar bills were counterfeits--stage money? Not at all; every one was as good as the gold it called for at the sub-treasury. Bribery? From whom and for what? Doubtless I should know later. As it happened, I found out a little ahead of time.
"You remember the incident of the honest cabman and the hieroglyphic letter which he turned over to me? Here it is, addressed, as you observe, to Mr. Chivers."