The Cab of the Sleeping Horse. John Reed Scott
another's residence in the dead of night, revolver in hand and violence in his intention, can expect no mercy and should receive none. You're an ordinary burglar, Crenshaw and as such the law will view you if I turn you over to the police. You think I found a letter in an abandoned cab at 18th and Massachusetts Avenue early this morning, and instead of coming like a respectable man and asking if I have it and proving your property—do you hear, proving your property—you play the burglar and highwayman. Evidently the letter isn't yours, and you haven't any right or claim to it. I have been injected into this matter; and having been injected I intend to ascertain what can be found from your papers. Who you are; what your object; who are concerned beside yourself; and anything else I can discover. You see, you have the advantage of me; you know who I am, and, I presume, my business; I know nothing of you, nor of your business, nor what this all means; though I might guess some things. It's to obviate guessing, as far as possible, that I am about to examine such evidence as you may have with you."
Crenshaw was so choked with his anger that for a moment he merely sputtered—then he relapsed into furious silence, his dark eyes glowing with such hate that Harleston paused and asked a bit curiously:
"Why do you take it so hard? It's all in the game—and you've lost. You're a poor sort of sport, Crenshaw. You'd be better at ping-pong or croquet. This matter of—letters, and cabs, is far beyond your calibre; it's not in your class."
"We haven't reached the end of the matter, my adroit friend," gritted Crenshaw. "My turn will come, never fear."
"A far day, monsieur, a far day!" said Harleston lightly. "Meanwhile, with your permission, we will have a look at the contents of your pockets. First, your pocketbook."
He unbuttoned the other's coat, put in his hand, and drew out the book.
"Attend, please," said he, "so you can see that I replace every article."
Crenshaw's only answer was a contemptuous shrug.
A goodly wad of yellow backs of large denominations, and some visiting cards, no two of which bore the same name, were the contents of the pocketbook.
"You must have had some difficulty in keeping track of yourself," Harleston remarked, as he made a note of the names.
Then he returned the bills and the cards to the book, and put it back in Crenshaw's pocket.
"It's unwise to carry so much money about you," he remarked; "it induces spending, as well as provokes attack."
"What's that to you?" replied Crenshaw angrily.
"Nothing whatever—it's merely a word of advice to one who seems to need it. Now for the other pockets."
The coat yielded nothing additional; the waist-coat, only a few matches and an open-faced gold watch, which Harleston inspected rather carefully both inside and out; the trousers, a couple of handkerchiefs with the initial C in the corner, some silver, and a small bunch of keys—and in the fob pocket a crumpled note, with the odour of carnations clinging to it.
Harleston glanced at Crenshaw as he opened the note—and caught a sly look in his eyes.
"Something doing, Crenshaw?" he queried.
Another shrug was Crenshaw's answer—and the sly look grew into a sly smile.
The note, apparently in a woman's handwriting, was in French, and contained five words and an initial:
À l'aube du jour.
M.
Harleston looked at it long enough to fix in his mind the penmanship and to mark the little eccentricities of style. Then he folded it and put it in Crenshaw's outside pocket.
"Thank you!" said he, with an amused smile.
"You forgot to look in the soles of my shoes?" Crenshaw jeered.
"Someone else will do that," Harleston replied.
"Someone else?" Crenshaw inflected.
"The police always search prisoners, I believe."
"My God, you don't intend to turn me over to the police?" Crenshaw exclaimed.
"Why not?" And when Crenshaw did not reply: "Wherein are you different from any other felon taken red-handed—except that you were taken twice in the same night, indeed?"
"Think of the scandal that will ensue!" Crenshaw cried.
"It won't affect me!" Harleston laughed.
"Won't affect you?" the other retorted. "Maybe it won't—and maybe it will!"
"We shall try it," Harleston remarked, and picked up the telephone.
Crenshaw watched him with a snarling sneer on his lips.
Harleston gave the private number of the police superintendent. He himself answered.
"Major Ranleigh, this is Harleston. I'd like to have a man report to me at the Collingwood at once.—No; one will be enough, thank you. Have him come right up to my apartment. Good-bye!—Now if you'll excuse me for a brief time, Mr. Crenshaw, I'll get into some clothes—while you think over the question whether you will explain or go to prison."
"You will not dare!" Crenshaw laughed mockingly. "Your State Department won't stand for it a moment when they hear of it—which they'll do at ten o'clock, if I'm missing."
"Let me felicitate you on your forehandedness," Harleston called from the next room. "It's admirably planned, but not effective for your release."
"Hell!" snorted Crenshaw, and relapsed into silence.
Presently Harleston appeared, dressed for the morning.
"Why not spread your cards on the table, Crenshaw?" he asked. "I did stumble on the deserted cab this morning, wholly by accident; I was on my way here. I did find in it a letter and these roses, and I brought them here. I don't know if you know what that letter contained—I do. It's in cipher—and will be turned over to the State Department for translation. What I want to know is: first—what is the message of the letter, if you know; second—who was the woman in the cab, and the facts of the episode; third—what governments, if any, are concerned."
"You're amazingly moderate in your demands," Crenshaw sarcasmed; "so moderate, indeed, that I would acquiesce at once but for the fact that I'm wholly ignorant of the contents of the letter. The name of the woman, and the episode of the cab are none of your affair; nor do the names of parties, whether personal or government, concern you in the least."
"Very well. We'll close up the cards and play the game. The first thing in the game, as I said a moment ago, Crenshaw, is not to squeal when you are in a hole and losing."
A knock came at the door. Harleston crossed and swung it open.
A young man—presumably a business man, quietly-dressed—stood at attention and saluted. If he saw the bound man in the chair, his eyes never showed it.
"Ah, Whiteside," Harleston remarked. "I'm glad it is you who was sent. Come in. … You will remain here and guard this man; you will prevent any attempt at escape or rescue, even though you are obliged to use the utmost force. I'm for down-town now; and I will communicate with you at the earliest moment. Meanwhile, the man is in your charge."
"Yes, Mr. Harleston!" Whiteside answered.
"I want some breakfast!" snapped Crenshaw.
"The officer will order from the cafe whatever you wish," Harleston replied; and picking up his stick he departed, the letter and the photograph in the sealed envelope in his inside pocket.
As he went out, he smiled pleasantly at Crenshaw.
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