XII
AND THE THIRD NIGHT BEGINS
“Men go quietly upon the missions which they think will bring them much.”
—A Maxim of Hong Yo.
THE next day Kenyon had his belongings, which he had now generously added to, removed to a hotel some distance up town.
“It has not the flare of the Waldorf,” he told himself, as he sat down to dinner, “and it’s not nearly so expensive. But it will do.”
He was still pondering over the menu when who should enter the café but Webster.
“Oh, I say, but this is luck,” exclaimed that young person, dumping himself into a chair at the opposite side of the table. “I got your notice of removal about an hour ago, while I was deep in the selecting of a menu for a tight old wax that I hoped to land for a good order. But right on top of your message came a ’phone call from him saying that he couldn’t keep the dinner appointment after all. So I dressed and hurried over here for a bite.”
“It couldn’t have happened better,” said Kenyon. “Because I want to discuss a few things with you, rather badly.”
He gave the man, who stood at his side, a carefully selected and rather elaborate list of dishes; then he turned to his friend once more.
“Last night,” said he, slowly, “I was a witness to what Captain Marryat once fascinatingly called ‘a most desperate and bloody murder.’”
“Heavens!” ejaculated Webster, staring at him. “Where?”
“In a Chinese den on the lower East Side.”
“After you left me?”
“Of course.”
Webster leaned back in his chair and wagged his head from side to side.
“What you need,” stated he, impressively, “is to have someone legally appointed to look after you. The first thing you know, you’ll be given an acting part in one of these little dramas that you appear to have grown so fond of; and then we’ll have to gather you up carefully with a rake.”
Kenyon nodded, humorously.
“Do you know,” said he, “I’d been thinking along that line. It’s one of the logical resultants, I suppose; but then we all must take our chances, you see.”
“Is there another story?” asked Webster.
“Not exactly. Rather, a continuation of the same one.”
“All the better. If there are no restrictions such as the surgeon labored under last night, I’d like to hear it.”
In a low voice and in as few words as possible Kenyon related his experiences of the preceding night, while Garry listened in silence. When he had finished, the young man from Chicago murmured, helplessly.
“Well, this is a wonderful world, to be sure! And there are astonishing things happening in it. It would have been a great deal better for the unknown from Butte if he had remained comfortably in his cot at Bellevue and allowed them to doctor at him. Do you know,” after a pause, “I should like to get a peep at your friend Hong Yo. He must be an exceedingly interesting person.”
“He is,” replied Kenyon. “But he is nothing like as interesting as some of the others.”
“The girl, for example.” Webster pursed up his lips disapprovingly. “Well,” reluctantly, “I must admit that later information seems to indicate that she is not sitting in this game as a partner.”
“She’s more likely to be a victim of some sort. And they are afraid of her.”
“A nasty state of affairs. For people like those to be in fear of anyone is for that person to make a quick exit. But the supposed knowledge of the great unknown as to her existence seems to be a most effectual barrier in this case. I wonder why?”
“I wonder.” By this time the dinner was well under way and both young men were doing justice to it. “But,” continued Kenyon, “I can’t for the life of me make out Forrester’s position. He talked of me supplanting him. He seems to have been, at one time, in almost complete control of the game they are engaged in. And yet, as I told you, he is one of the most frankly honest men in appearance that I have ever set eyes on. I can’t help classing him with the others; but still—”
“His coming to the rescue of the girl, so to speak,” said Webster, “is a point in his favor. And her going with him so readily is another. I think it is also to his credit that this man Farbush does not approve of him.”
“But Hong Yo does; what do you make of that?”
“I’m stumped. The whole thing is as puzzling as it was at the first.”
“There is one small matter that has a peculiar fascination for me,” stated Kenyon, as he trifled with his dessert. “And that is the private safe of Farbush.”
“That’s so!” exclaimed Webster. “That little point slipped me. But what do you suppose is in it?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. But Farbush seemed startled at the girl’s having any knowledge of it. I’m inclined to think that if we had the contents of that safe on this table between us for a half hour we would have little guessing to do afterwards.”
“By Jove, Ken,” laughed Webster, “do you know I’d almost expect you to venture a burglary if you knew exactly where to head the enterprise. You’ve got it in your eye.”
Kenyon looked at his friend with a sudden smile.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “But, now that you mention it, I’ll give it consideration.”
“Well, if you take on the job,” said Webster, tickled with the conceit, “let me know, will you, I’d like to go with you.”
Webster had a theatre party on for the night, and as the time drew near for his departure he urged Kenyon to go along. But the latter refused.
“I’ve got some thinking to do,” said he, “and I’m going to take a half-dozen cigars out with me for a walk. So trot along, old fellow; I’ll see you to-morrow night, perhaps.”
Madison Square is not much frequented during the chilly nights of late November, so Kenyon, muffled up in his overcoat, tramped up and down, drawing hard at a strong cigar and thinking deeply. At the end of the cigar he suddenly paused as though his mind had been made up to something.
“Perhaps they’ll know at the hotel,” he muttered. “It will do no harm to inquire, at any rate.”
He strode along up Fifth Avenue and turned into the Waldorf-Astoria. One of the hotel’s private policemen saluted him in the lobby, and Kenyon called him aside.
“I’m looking for information,” said he. “There is a man I know slightly who comes here, I think, at times. His name is Farbush.” Here Kenyon described the man. “Can you tell me where he lives?”
“Farbush? I don’t know the name, but there is a man that comes here occasionally, and who answers to that description. Is your man a ship-owner?”
“I couldn’t say. As I mentioned, my acquaintance with him is slight.”
“I’ll see the head-waiter. If he’s a regular customer, he’ll know something about him, sure. Waiters always do.”
The man was gone but a very few minutes.
“Yes,” said he upon his return. “I think it’s the same party. He is interested in shipping. Head-waiter knows him well. Lives on Fifth Avenue, up near the park. Initials are J. F. Don’t know his number, but you’ll find it in the directory.”
Kenyon acted upon this suggestion and secured the desired address. Then he caught an uptown bus, and in a little while was standing before the house named, but upon the opposite side of the avenue.
“Mr. Farbush appears to be a person of some consequence,” he muttered. “And that only makes him a more dangerous man to contend with. But before I take any steps I’ll have to be sure that this is the same man. It would hardly do to disturb a disinterested party,” dryly.
As luck would have it, a cab drew up at that moment before the house, and a man and woman alighted. The woman Kenyon could not make out; but the man he recognized at once as he turned in the glare of the cab lamp to pay the driver. It was Farbush. Kenyon watched both up the steps and saw the door close behind them. Then he hailed the same cab.
“The Bowery and Houston Street,” directed he, as he slammed the door. Down Fifth Avenue rolled the cab, over the smooth asphalt, then into Broadway and finally Houston Street. When they pulled up at the Bowery, Kenyon got out. Handing the cabby his fare, he said:
“You look like an old New York boy.”
“Born and raised in the Sixth Ward,” answered the man, proudly.
“Good! Maybe you can tell me what I want to know. There used to be a place somewhere on the Bowery near here kept by a man named Brady—Gypsy Brady.”
“Oh, the cops put Brady out of business long ago. You see, New York grew out of those places where they had bad whiskey and bad music. Either one of them must be good now,” with a grin. “But if you want the Gypsy, he’s easy found. Lives over Schmelzer’s place in Pell Street. It’s a pool-room. Anybody will tell you where it is.”
A little later found Kenyon making his way among the human drift that thickens such slack water as Pell Street. The stench of the low Chinese dens was almost unbearable; now and then he met the large-pupiled gaze of a gray-faced wretch begging money with which to purchase his dearly loved drug. But Kenyon paid little attention to anything save his hunt for Schmelzer’s place. At the corner of a foul-looking alley he encountered a short, large-bodied youth in a striped sweater and a cap.
“I’m looking for a pool-room kept by a man named Schmelzer,” said Kenyon. “Can you tell me where to find it?”
The short youth looked him over carefully and then said:
“I’ll spot you three, and take you on at a dollar a game.”
Kenyon shook his head and smiled.
“I’m not playing to-night,” said he. “I’m looking for a friend of mine who I’ve been told lives over Schmelzer’s.”
The other looked disappointed; but he pointed down the street, and said:
“See the big blue blaze at the second story. That’s the hut. There is a Chink bean foundry on the first floor, and Schmelzer is on the next. On top of that you’ll find the hay-piles. Break in by the side door.”
“Thanks,” said Kenyon.
The place indicated was but a short distance away. Passing the entrance to a strong-smelling Chinese restaurant, Kenyon found a narrow, dirty-looking doorway. He passed up a flight of stairs, and at the first landing came upon Schmelzer’s in full blast. Men in pronounced clothes and with hats slanted at different angles played expert cues at the tables; about the ends of the room groups were formed discussing subjects of professional interest.
“Pickpockets, second-story operators and pikers,” commented Kenyon, as he went on up the next flight. “It looks like a cosey corner of Chicago when that good old town was a howling wilderness.”
On the next landing he found himself confronted by a small, dirty-faced girl, with tangled yellow hair.
“Who do you want?” demanded she.
“Mr. Brady,” answered Kenyon. “Does he live here?”
“What do you want with him?” inquired the child.
The adventurer looked down into the sharp little face, so smutted and old looking.
“He’s an old friend of mine, kidsy,” answered he. “Here’s a dime.”
A grimy little hand shot out for the coin. Then she said:
“He lives back there, in the last room. Knock hard on the door. Maybe he’s drunk.”
Kenyon picked his way along the dirty hall, and rapped at the door at the end.
“Who’s there?” growled a rough voice.
“How are you, Brady?” responded Kenyon. “Can I come in?”