Part 10

"One day an oldish gentleman called at my office," Anderson went on, "a decent, respectable body, that you would expect to see coming out of church on Sunday morning. His hair was fixed in an old-fashioned way, sort of brushed forward of his ears like, and he wore a heavy mustache and neat little goatee or imperial."

Jack had the pleasant feeling that he was getting "warm" as children say in their game. They were sitting in an alcove of a saloon under the elevated railway, and he was glad of the semi-gloom of the place that prevented Anderson from seeing his face too clearly.

"He didn't give me his name," Anderson went on, "in fact I don't know it to this day. I just call him 'Mr. B.' He told me right off the bat that he was an anarchist, and I was a bit startled, noticing the little black satchel he carried. I remarked that he didn't gee with my idea of a Red, and he explained that he was disguised. So I don't even know what he looks like naturally."

"He went on to tell me that he had experienced what he called a change of heart--sort o' got religion you understand. The murder of Mr. Benton had sickened him, he said, and now he was anxious to do something to make up for the harm he had caused."

"He let on that he was one of the leading Reds of the country, a kid of supreme grand master with the entrée to every lodge. He said he wasn't going to betray any of his comrades, but that with my help, if I was willing, he would draw their teeth, so to speak, by giving warning to their intended victims.

"Well, I wasn't in a philanthropic mood myself, being as I had so much trouble already to make ends meet, and I didn't want to invite trouble with the Reds or anybody else, so at first I was cool to his scheme. But as he talked on I began to wake up to the possibilities.

"Well, sir, we began to dope out the scheme of Eureka right then, or rather, he doped it out and I listened with big ears. He had it all thought out before he came. When he talked about getting all the millionaires to subscribe for personal protection, I saw a happy future opening up. The best of it was, it was absolutely bona fide, and on the level; we really had something to sell them, for my friend, as I say, had the entrée to every anarchistic circle in the country, and was prepared to furnish me with full information of any plot they laid against a rich man."

"The only thing we stuck on was the division of the proceeds. He demanded seventy-five per cent. I tried to laugh him down--but it didn't get across. He wasn't a man you could get gay with. He had an eye that fixed you like a brad-awl.

"'You forget,' he said, 'that I'm the one who supplies the essential thing. I could get any one of a hundred detective agencies for the rest.'

"I tried to bluff him a bit. 'Not after you've opened it to me,' I said. 'I could queer it!'

"'You won't do that,' he said very quiet. And, by Gad, when he fixed me with those eyes, I thought of a dozen horrible deaths I might die, and I knew that I couldn't split on him if I wanted to. A wonderful man. In the end I had to accept his hard terms.

"Well, that's all. From the start it worked like a charm. With the horrible death of Ames Benton fresh in their minds, the millionaires fell all over themselves to subscribe for protection. We started at a moderate figure, and gradually jacked up their dues. You'd open your eyes if I told you the amount of money that passes through this little office every month."

"Give me an idea," said Jack.

"That's something I'll never tell any man," said Anderson with a slightly drunken leer.

"Do you only operate in the city here?"

"Yes. He may have other agencies outside. He may have other agencies right here in town for all I know. It was part of our agreement that I was to approach nobody except the men whose names he furnished. I haven't all the millionaires on my books by a long sight."

"Do you mean to tell me you've been in business with this man for three years and don't even know his right name?"

"It's a fact, and what's more I've never laid eyes on him from that day to this."

"Come off!" said Jack incredulously.

"It's a fact, I tell you. It stands to reason, don't it, that he couldn't be seen around here?"

"You could meet him outside."

"Too risky. If the other anarchists got on to his connection with me, his life wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel!"

"But you know where he lives?"

Anderson shook his head.

"Then how do you send him his share of the proceeds?"

"I send it in cash on a certain day every week. I put it in an envelope together with a statement of the week's business, and send it to a name and address previously furnished me that day over the 'phone. It's always different. Generally to a hotel, to be called for. I send it by messenger."

"Have you never had the curiosity to follow up the messenger?"

"No, sir! I've learned that it's healthier for me to follow instructions. I get my instructions over the 'phone, and by Gad! if they're not carried out to the letter he knows it, and I soon know it from him!"

"He must be a wonderful man."

"He's a marvel! Say it scares you like, the way he knows things. He tells me everything to do: who to see and how to approach him; how to follow him up. And everything always turns out just the way he says. It's like magic!"

Anderson's talk got a little muzzy, and drifted away to other subjects. A perfunctory attention was all he required and Jack's brain was free to ponder on what he had heard. He believed Anderson's story in the main. Incredible as it had seemed beforehand, he no longer doubted that Anderson was an innocent tool in the affair--at least comparatively innocent. The great sums he was making had no doubt helped to quiet an inquiring mind. When one is anxious not to discover an unpleasant fact, one may very easily remain in ignorance of it through all.

It began to look as if the decent little gentleman with the goatee was the guiding spirit in the whole scheme. Jack had made a long step forward in his investigation, but he now found himself opposed by an intelligence of the first class; one before whom Jack's youth and inexperience might well falter a little. He marvelled at the cunning with which the principal used innocent men to further his criminal projects. Apparently he had built up a highly organized business of blackmail, with various departments all working independently of each other. And he gathered up all strings in his own hands.

17

Arno Sturani, otherwise "Barbarossa," answered Jack's note and invited him to call at his house in the evening.

Jack visited Evers' shop as a preliminary, and he was obliged to go in the afternoon before closing hours. He dispatched Bobo to dine with Mrs. Cleaver and Miriam. While Bobo could hardly be said to be safe in that company, still it was some satisfaction to Jack to know where he was.

The astute little wig-maker and his wife, the retired ballet-dancer, greeted Jack like an old and valued customer. Old-fashioned shop-keepers have this art.

"Everything going well?" asked Mr. Evers.

"Splendidly!"

"That little job I did for you; has it served its turn?"

"Couldn't have been better."

"What do you require to-day?"

"A fresh make-up for another purpose."

"Ah! Come back into one of the dressing-rooms."

Mr. Evers was distressed to learn that Jack had put himself out to get to the shop before closing time.

"You can make an appointment by 'phone for any hour of the day or night," he said. "Of course it would be too conspicuous for me to let you in and out of the shop after closing hours, but my apartment is upstairs. Come there any time, and we can get what we need out of the shop."

Jack thanked him. "This time," he said, "I want to look like a mere lad, a poor boy in cheap worn clothes, but a student, a highbrow, full of wild, anarchistic ideas."

"Anarchistic?" said Mr. Evers, elevating the scant eyebrows. "Are you going into that kind of society?"

"Temporarily."

"Beware! I know nothing about such people, but I am told they are like wild beasts. Curious, isn't it, how they run to hair? Disturbs all my theories. Such beards! Such tangled, flowing locks. How is it that men so unbalanced are thus favored?"

"I don't know," said Jack, smiling. "Perhaps they don't have any more than other men to start with, but spare the scissors and the razor."

"I've taken that into account. Even so, you never heard of a bald anarchist, did you?"

Jack admitted that he had not. "Perhaps I can give you some first-hand information later," he added.

Mr. Evers said he would be glad of it.

"Now let me see as to your make-up," he went on. "Your luxuriant hair will now come in handy. Let it fall over your eyes so. A pair of thick glasses this time to make you look short-sighted. I have a pair specially made with lenses of clear glass let in to enable you to see where you are going. Clothes are the principal item. I think I have just what you require."

"It's no trouble for me to make you look like a youth who might frequent such company," he said, "but the question is, can you keep up the character once you get there? I am told those people talk a strange jargon of phrases that the uninitiated cannot understand."

"I've been boning up on their literature," said Jack. "I think I can keep my end up."

"Ah, I see I am not dealing with a tyro," said Mr. Evers with a flattering air of respect.

Jack dined at an humble little restaurant on the East Side, such as befitted his new condition, and afterwards presented himself at the address on East Broadway furnished by Sturani's letter. It was one of those plain old-fashioned dwellings common in the neighborhood. They are occupied by the elite of the East Side; that is to say, doctors, lawyers, politicians, who still find it profitable to live among their clients and constituents.

Barbarossa's house was a combination of residence, school and club. On a brass plate beside the door was the legend: "Sturani School of Social Science." A youth, much the same as the one who had sold him books, let Jack in, and after favoring him with a hard stare, led him to a small room at the back and told him to wait. The house seemed to be full of Barbarossa's disciples. Jack had glimpses of groups in the unfurnished parlors, arguing with fury.

Jack had learned that Barbarossa's position among anarchists corresponded in a way with the description of himself which the mysterious Mr. B. had furnished Anderson, and he naturally inferred that Barbarossa might be another alias of Mr. B.'s. His heart beat fast with excitement as he waited for him, thinking that he was perhaps about to come face to face with his real adversary.

But when the redoubtable Barbarossa plunged into the room, Jack was speedily disillusioned of his hopes. Plunged is the only word to use: the anarchist's movements were like those of a frolicking mastiff--only Barbarossa always affected an air of weighty import. He was enormously fat, and it was genuine fat, as Jack could tell by the shake and sag of him as he flung himself into a chair. By no stretch could he have transformed himself into the neat, decent little gentleman so often described to Jack. This was not Mr. B.

Moreover, Barbarossa had a mass of red hair standing on end around his head like a halo, and a spreading red beard. These were indubitably real, too, and had obviously taken years to produce.

"You're Cassels," grunted Barbarossa.

"Yes, sir."

"Humph! English!"

"English descent, sir."

"We don't get many English boys interested in ideas."

Jack privately hoped this would not count against him. He had considered assuming a foreign character, but had given it up as being too difficult to maintain.

"What do you want of me?" demanded Barbarossa.

"I want to learn," said Jack. "I want to meet men with ideas. I want to take part in the movement."

"Have you any money?"

Jack was somewhat taken aback. "A little. I'm only a working-boy."

"If you can pay, you can come to my school. It's fifteen dollars payable in advance. Afternoon or evening classes. You can come as often as you want."

"I'll come," said Jack. "I'll bring the money to-morrow. Is there some work I could do, too? For the Cause. Can I belong to a circle?"

"Circle?" said Barbarossa with a sharp glance of his little blue eyes--they were at once irascible and short-sighted, eyes of a fanatic. "What kind of a circle?"

"Liberators."

"I don't know what you're talking about. If there is any such thing, I suppose you'll be invited to belong when you've proved yourself worthy. Come to my school and I'll put some ideas into your head if it's not too English."

"Thank you, sir," said Jack rising. This was as far as he supposed he could get on the first meeting.

"By the way, who told you about me?" demanded Barbarossa.

"I read your articles in the _Future Age_."

"Well, then, who told you about the _Future Age_?"

Jack was tempted to try an experiment. "Fellow I used to room with. The hero who croaked old Silas Gyde. Emil Jansen."

It had an electrical effect. Barbarossa was out of his chair with a bound. His ruddy cheeks turned a gray color, on which the network of little dark veins stood out startlingly.

"Silence! Don't speak that name here! Hero nothing! Madman! Fool! What have you got to do with _him_?"

"Why, nothing!" stammered Jack, affecting a great confusion. "Isn't he one of you? Isn't he working for the Cause?"

"I don't know him!" cried Barbarossa. "If he claims to be my friend I repudiate him! Such madmen are like to ruin us all!"

"But--you said in your article that I read, that the capitalistic order must be overthrown at any cost. That he was a hero who gave up his life to accomplish it."

"That's all right in a periodical," said Barbarossa. "They don't care what you write. But murder----!" The fat man shuddered. "I'm a responsible citizen. I've got a wife and four children to think of."

Jack thought: "In anarchy, like other religions, there seems to be a considerable gap between preaching and practising."

"What did Jansen tell you about me?" demanded Barbarossa.

"Nothing particular," said Jack. "He just let on that he admired you, and was trying to live according to your teachings. He read me some out of a book he was writing. He dedicated it to you."

"What!" cried Barbarossa. "In writing?"

"Yes, it was written down."

"And the police searched his room! Oh, my God! I'm done!" He collapsed in his chair.

Jack looked at the collapsed mountain of flesh, and suppressed a smile. Not a very formidable object this.

"Was it my right name, Sturani?" Barbarossa asked anxiously.

"No. He had written: 'To Barbarossa.'"

A little color returned to the big man's face. "Oh, well, the police are stupid. Maybe they won't establish the connection. I expect I would have heard from them before this if they had. That's all, Cassels; you can go."

"And may I come to the school to-morrow?"

"Sure, if you bring the money."

From a public booth, Jack telephoned Harmon Evers that he would be right up to change back to his proper person.

On the way uptown he sought to digest what he had learned.

"Barbarossa is certainly not the man I'm looking for. Just the same, his fright makes it clear that he is at the head of some group that Emil Jansen belonged to. I must join that group. It's hardly possible that Barbarossa himself instigated the attack on Silas Gyde. He's only a paper anarchist. Somewhere back of him I'll find the cagy little 'Mr. B.' again. Lordy! This case lengthens out like a telescope!"

"Well!" said Mr. Evers, "you're back early. Did you see any anarchists? How about their hair?"

"The main guy of all had a bald spot as big as a saucer. Just a hedge of hair all around like the burning bush in bloom."

"Well, I'm relieved to hear that."

18

Jack had not yet succeeded in establishing just where Miriam and Mrs. Cleaver fitted into the jig-saw puzzle he had to solve. Miriam, from the foreknowledge he had gained from Silas Gyde's letter, he had no hesitating in dubbing an out-and-out bad one, but he was less sure about Clara. He set himself to discover more about her.

There was nothing mysterious about her origin, and he had no difficulty in learning the main facts about her from outside sources. She was a poor girl, the daughter of a great physician who had lived beyond his means. She had married before her father's death, the son of a wealthy and prominent family, but he, having run through his fortune, shot himself. She had, therefore, been left penniless, nor had she, so far as was known, received any legacy since his death.

To Jack, therefore, the grand question was, where did she get the money that provided the Park Avenue house, the bands of servants, the magnificent entertainments; the dresses, jewels, furs and automobiles. It was charitably said that she had made it in lucky speculations, but Jack was not satisfied with that. One must have something to speculate with. There had never been any scandal in connection with her name.

These parties of Mrs. Cleaver's offered no lack of food for speculation. In her way Clara was quite the rage, and every element of smart New York society was represented among the guests--except perhaps the most hide-bound exclusives. She always took care to provide, too, a leaven of clever artistic people, "to amuse the rich," she said.

So far everything was usual and explainable, but there was always another element present that mystified Jack. This consisted of various young people of both sexes, always good-looking, perfectly dressed and at least superficially well-bred; often vivacious and charming--but invariably with hard, wary eyes.

These self-possessed youngsters turned up mysteriously, and were as mysteriously lost sight of again. They made a convenience of Mrs. Cleaver's house almost as if it had been a hotel. Mrs. Cleaver introduced them effusively at her parties like dear friends, but at other times she ignored them--and they as frankly returned the compliment. Sometimes they made good independently of her and enjoyed a more or less brief career in society. Sometimes they disappeared and were seen no more.

Mrs. Cleaver was not by any means a prudent, wary woman, and it was not difficult for Jack to learn where she banked. She often took him about with her. She had four bank accounts. Through the good offices of Mr. Delamare Jack next learned from the books of the banks concerned, that she had been in the habit of depositing a thousand dollars weekly. In other words, every Friday afternoon she took a thousand dollars downtown and added it to one of her four accounts.

Having learned so much, the next time Friday came around Jack took care to be on hand early at the Cleaver house. He kept his eyes open for all that took place that morning. Just before lunch a messenger boy delivered a small packet for Mrs. Cleaver. Jack by a casual question or two of a servant, learned that this was a regular happening on Friday mornings, and that the packet was always carried direct to Mrs. Cleaver by her orders.

Jack, who had already learned from Anderson of the large part played by the messenger service in Mr. B.'s operations, guessed that this packet came direct from him. It was a good enough working theory anyway. Fifty thousand a year was no mean price! For that, Jack figured, Mrs. Cleaver lent her name and social position to the blackmailers, and allowed them to use her house as a base of operations. It was likely he thought that she did not know what their game was, and with that handsome sum coming in so regularly, did not care to inquire.

Jack conceived the bold idea of enlightening Mrs. Cleaver, trusting to her better qualities to turn her against her present employer, and ally her with himself.

His opportunity to talk to her alone came that night, when Miriam and Bobo failed to return for dinner. Jack and Clara dined alone.

At the end of the meal she said listlessly: "Where shall we go to-night?"

"Let's not go anywhere for a change," said Jack. "Let's have a fire in the library, and sit and talk."

That struck her as a pleasantly novel idea. "All right. I'm sick of the game to-night. And you're a restful person."

Jack smiled a little grimly, thinking that what he had to say to the lady would not exactly be restful.

When they were comfortably established before the fire, he began to lead up to it gradually.

"This society game is a funny one, isn't it?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, here you are spending your life rushing around like a mad woman to teas and dinners and dances, theaters, operas, fashionable shows of every kind. What do you get out of it, really?"

"God knows!" she said wearily.

"When you're not tearing around to other peoples' shows you're having one of your own. Lord! what a gabbling mob! To hear them, you'd think they loved each other to death, and positively worshiped you. And as a matter of fact nobody gives a single damn!"

"That's true."

"Then why do you do it? It must cost a heap of money."

"I don't know," she said slowly. "Habit, I suppose. In the beginning it seemed like the only thing open to a woman like me, the only way to get on; to build up a social position I mean, and so be powerful. Now I have it, I find there's nothing in it."

"Then why don't you give it up."

She looked at him in a scared way. "How could I? I'm in the thick of the game. I've got to play it out. What else could I do? Where could I go?"

"You have real friends, I suppose."

"I had once. But after the scramble of the last three years--I don't know----!"

The words "three years" struck Jack with meaning. That corresponded exactly with the period of "Mr. B.'s" activities.

"Any one could begin a new life if they really wished," he said.

She looked at him queerly. "You're not leading up to a proposal of marriage, are you?"

"No," said Jack, smiling.

"It sounded like it," she said, settling back. "I like you ever so much, but of course it wouldn't do."

"I have wondered why you never married again," he said. "So many men----!"

"Oh, they don't mean anything. It's just the fashion to pay me attention. They look on me more as an institution than a woman. The ones who do come to the point of asking me are always horrid--or poor."

"But you have plenty."

"The appearances of wealth are illusory."

"I should think fifty thousand a year----"

She laughed lightly. "Where did you get that idea? I haven't the half of it."

There was a silence while Jack debated how to go on.

"Clara, I would really like to be your friend," he said at last.

"That's nice of you."

"If you only felt disposed to tell me frankly of your situation and your difficulties, perhaps I could help you."

Something in this alarmed her; she favored him with a sharp little glance. "Mercy!" she said, turning it off with a laugh. "I haven't any special difficulties that I know of."

"Who are these mysterious hard-eyed young people that come and go in this house as if they owned it? I mean George Thatcher, Emily Coster, Grace Marsden, and the others. Miriam herself; who is she, and where did she come from? She's no cousin of yours."

Frank terror leaped out of Mrs. Cleaver's eyes. She attempted to mask it with a semblance of anger. "They are my friends! Am I obliged to give you an account of them!"

"Queer friends!" murmured Jack. "You scarcely speak to them unless there are outsiders here."

"What do you mean by taking this tone towards me!"

"I wish to be your friend. Don't force me to believe the worst of you. If your conscience is clear, why should you fear a few plain questions?"

"I'll hear what they are first. I don't like your tone."

"You receive a thousand dollars every week. Where does it come from?"