Читать книгу Adventure Tales 6 - H. Bedford-Jones - Страница 4

THE FUGITIVE STATUE, by Vincent Starrett

I

Mr. Oakley Ashenhurst removed his pipe from his mouth with his left hand, and with a lift of his chin blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling of his study. His right hand held open the volume he had been reading spread out upon the table; in the circle of bright light dropped upon the pages by the young man’s student lamp the black print seemed doubly black. Ashenhurst yawned luxuriously and lay back in his chair. The corners of his study, which was also his bedroom, sitting-room, library, and, on furtive occasions, his dining-room, were deeply dark with a darkness that lightened by degrees as it approached the spot occupied by the reading table and the funnel of intense light from the lamp. Upon a low mantel ticked a nickel-plated clock, and by a swift movement of the ingenious lamp the student ascertained that it was exactly midnight. At this instant, while he was registering satisfaction and relief, in the street beyond his window Oakley Ashenhurst heard the sound of running feet.

They were steady footsteps, light but sharp, and they slapped the pavement with a staccato quality that was impressive in the silence. They approached, crescendoed before the house, and diminuendoed in the distance, as drumsticks simulate hoofbeats in the theatre. Reclined in his chair, young Ashenhurst heard them come and heard them go, with idle curiosity. Hazy speculations floated through his mind for a few moments; then with an effort he pulled himself together, marked his place in the volume, snapped off the light, and slipped out of his bathrobe and into his bed. In the morning, he thought nothing about the footsteps at all; he had forgotten them.

But the next night, after a harrowing session at the evening medical class in which he was completing his education, as he toiled again over his Anatomy in the darkened room, the young man’s memory was jogged; he was reminded by the footsteps themselves. As before, they approached with soft distinctness, pattered sharply past the dark dwelling, and melted away in the silence.

Ashenhurst’s mind stirred sleepily. Last night—midnight—very curious! He turned the light funnel on the little clock and registered mild surprise. Again it was midnight! An odd coincidence, thought Ashenhurst as he climbed into bed. Somebody in training for a race? The nights were getting cool for track suits, he chuckled. And anyway, why this short, deserted thoroughfare with its straggle of sickly street lamps and its old-fashioned, sober dwellings? Why not the fine stretches of the neighboring boulevard? Or, for that matter, the little park at the corner, with its cinder paths seemingly designed for such an enterprise? He was still speculating when he fell asleep.

As he crossed the park, next morning, on his way to the office, young Mr. Ashenhurst thought again of the footsteps. Decidedly these cinder paths were the proper lanes for training. As a young man on the very brink of becoming a physician, Ashenhurst approved the activities of the midnight sprinter, but as a methodical young man he believed that a sense of fitness should direct the activity; and decidedly these cinder paths were preferable to hard asphalt. He paused for a moment beside the central fountain to admire the graceful figure of the faun from whose upturned pipes, the water burst like iridescent flute notes; he dabbled his fingers in the pool, and tossed crumbs to the stately couple—Mr. and Mrs. Swan he always called them—that sailed its bosom. Then, cheerily whistling, he continued on his way.

“Really,” murmured Oakley Ashenhurst, just before he dismissed the matter from his mind, “I must have a look at this midnight runner, if he continues to frequent my block.”

So that when, that midnight, again he heard the pattering footsteps in the street, young Mr. Ashenhurst was ready. Assuming that the athlete would operate upon a schedule, and that that schedule would take him past the house at midnight, the prospective Dr. Ashenhurst closed his volume of Anatomy at 11:55, snapped out his light, parted his window curtains, raised his window a trifle higher, and seated himself at the aperture. In the darkness, the small nickel-plated clock ticked on toward midnight. A mild breeze blew in from the street and gently stirred the curtains. Immediately opposite the house, on the other side of the street, a street light gleamed through dirty glass; there was no other for some distance, and the surrounding windows were as black as that of Oakley Ashenhurst, whose pipe bubbled contentedly in the darkness.

At the first rumor of the steps, he sat forward and directed his gaze outward and downward. He turned his eyes up the street toward the little park which, however, was invisible. The middle of the street was bare, but something white was coming down the sidewalk on the near side. The slapping footsteps sounded clearly now. Lightly, evenly, with long, running strides, bounding as gracefully as an animal, the racing figure advanced out of semi-darkness into semi-light. Out of semi-light it moved into the rays of the dingy lamp. Then a cry that was a strangled scream burst from the lips of Oakley Ashenhurst, and, rising upright he seized the curtain beside him with such haste and vigor that it tore in his grasp.

His eyes wide with horror, he saw the white figure pass below his window and enter the semi-light beyond. Inexpressibly shocked; he saw it merge from semi-light to semi-darkness, and vanish into darkness. Its pattering footsteps seemed to beat against his stunned and startled brain.

It was the nude stone statue from the fountain in the corner park.

II

And that was the sensational story I told my friend Lavender, the evening after the occurrence, as we sat in his Portland Street rooms and smoked over our coffee. It was just such a tale, I knew, as Lavender liked, for my friend Lavender, although a consulting detective of wide reputation, boasts as fantastic an imagination as I have encountered in print. He heard me through in silence, but with raised eyebrows that spoke his interest. I admit that I made the most of the incredible tale.

“Extraordinary!” he commented, when I had finished. He added at once, “And, delightful, too! A fine theatrical touch to it. This Ashenhurst, I take it, is a sober young man?”

“Quite,” I assured him. “I’ve known him only a few months, but I like him greatly. He’s in one of my classes, and is an excellent student. Not at all given to romancing, I should say. He strikes me as being eminently sane and practical.”

“Yet he tells this insane story,” said Lavender, “and, if I am to believe you, tells it with entire belief.”

“And very convincingly,” I added. “He certainly thinks he saw something, and it has upset him.”

Lavender laughed shortly. “No wonder,” he said. “It would upset anybody. A very ingenious business! What do you think of it, Gilly?”

“Nothing!” I answered promptly. “I think Ashenhurst was dreaming.”

“Nothing of the sort.”

“You don’t mean to say you believe it?” I demanded. “I knew it would please you, but I didn’t expect the story to be believed.”

“I certainly don’t believe he saw the statue, if that’s what you mean; but he saw something very curious indeed. Now what did he see? And why did he see it? The second question is the more important of the two, and the hardest to answer.”

He smoked in silence for a moment, thinking deeply. When he spoke, the current of his thought had changed.

“You know Ashenhurst’s place?” he asked suddenly.

“I’ve been there once. I know the neighborhood pretty well, and I’ve seen the statue, so to call it. Of course, it isn’t a statue; it’s a figure in a fountain.”

“A distinction that doesn’t help the case,” observed Lavender with a dry smile. “Tell me about the street.”

“Well, it’s called Cambridge Court, and it’s only a block in length. It runs from Belden Square—which is the little park—to Crayview Avenue, which is a through street, as you know, popular with motorists. Cambridge Court is an old street, and the houses are old—once toney, but shabby-genteel now. You know the kind; every other family keeps roomers. But it’s all very respectable, and the streets surrounding it are highly desirable residence thoroughfares. It’s sort of hidden away, as it were, and the people who live in the court have a quiet, subdued air about them—as if the world had forgotten them, and they were glad of it, if you understand what I mean.”

“Perfectly,” smiled Lavender. “You are a bit of a poet, Gilruth. And the house?”

“Three story and attic, I think. Basement, too, probably. Brick, of course. Porcelain doorknobs. I should think it was a handsome establishment back in 1895. The front windows are bay windows, and Ashenhurst’s room looks into the street from the second floor. He rents it from a family named Harden, who live in the back of the house. I think there are other roomers.”

“North side of the street? Hm-m! I think I see it. You used your eyes well on your one visit. Well, well! And Belden Square a half-block from, the dwelling. The statue didn’t have to run far, did it? It could leave the fountain, run around the block, and be back in no time.”

“Oh, easily!” I sarcastically agreed. “Don’t you think we ought to watch it tonight, and catch it as it steps out of the fountain?”

Lavender laughed. “Not quite that, perhaps; but there is some watching to be done. I, for one, should like to see the thing. Shouldn’t you?”

“I know Ashenhurst would like to have you,” I said.

“You’ve mentioned me to him, eh? Well, you guessed right when you thought I would be interested. I am interested. Something very curious is going on, Gilly, or something tremendously unimportant. I don’t know which.”

“I don’t follow you there.”

“I only mean that if your friend saw what he thinks he saw, the matter is most important. If he was deceived—by a resemblance, let us say—then probably the solution is very simple and unimportant. You see, there are a great many possibilities. If Ashenhurst was deceived, then he may actually have seen only some innocent idiot running off his weight, clad in a track suit or something of the sort. If Ashenhurst had been thinking of the statue, for any reason, and had it in his mind, he might have imagined that he saw it; in which case the solution of the matter is that Ashenhurst needs a doctor and a vacation. Or he may have seen a lunatic running naked; that certainly would heighten the resemblance to our stone friend in the park. In which case the lunatic should be apprehended, although the affair would still be relatively unimportant. But—if Ashenhurst actually saw the statue—that is, of course, somebody made up to look like the statue—the case becomes highly important, for something very significant must be back of such an impersonation; something more than just lunacy, I should say.”

“What, for instance?”

He laughed again, and ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair with a familiar gesture that brought into prominence his single plume of white.

“Well, just for instance—to frighten somebody to death! The thing certainly gave Ashenhurst a scare.”

“That’s quite an idea,” I admitted, “but you don’t believe it.”

“Don’t I? You don’t know what I believe, Gilly—and I don’t know myself yet. How should I? But you’re coming with me, of course?”

“Yes,” I said promptly. “You may gamble on that.”

He looked at his watch. “There’s three hours to midnight. I should like to have seen the statue first—out of curiosity, if nothing else—but we must assume that our friend will run again tonight, and I don’t want Ashenhurst to be alone!”

Something in the earnestness of his last words arrested me, and I looked a startled inquiry. He slowly nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “I don’t know why, Gilly, but I’ve a notion that this may portend evil to your friend. It’s just a feeling, too vague to put into logical thought, but—well, for two nights Ashenhurst didn’t look out of his window, and last night he did! You see? He saw the thing, whatever it is—and it must have known that he saw it. And so, tonight—? That’s all! I can’t make it any plainer.”

An unpleasant thrill ran through me, for as he spoke I had the feeling, too.

“Come on,” I cried; and got quickly to my feet. He followed more leisurely; and as we tramped down the dark stairs I added, “We can cross the park, Jimmie, if you want a look at that thing. It’s on our way.”

“Well—perhaps,” he agreed. “But I should prefer not to be seen evidencing too great an interest in it.”

The night was fine, with a good moon and plenty of stars, and when our taxi had set us down not far from Belden Square, Lavender determined to have his look.

“There seems to be plenty of citizens abroad,” he argued, “and I’ll warrant there are more of them in the park. We may as well chance it.”

So, sauntering easily and ostentatiously smoking, we plunged into the little park and began our stroll diagonally across its tapestry of moonlit grass. A number of couples passed us, arm in arm, and as we approached the fountain we saw that at least a dozen persons were patrolling the paths about it. The tinkle of water sounded pleasantly in the night as it rained into the pool, and the moonlight on the stone figure of the piping faun in the midst of the falling water was memorable.

No one paid the slightest attention to us, as we idled for a moment at the stone brink; and after a careless glance or two we turned away.

“A pretty picture,” I suggested.

“Very,” said Lavender shortly. He added after an instant, “Well, he’s still there!”

In five minutes more, still easily strolling, we had entered the little street in which lived and studied my classmate, Ashenhurst.

Cambridge Court interested Lavender deeply, and his glance was everywhere as we proceeded into its dusky canyon.

“Not many lamps,” he murmured. “Only three in the block. And the folks retire early. It can’t be more than 10:30, yet nearly every house is in darkness. Two lights down there near the corner, across the street, and one here on our left. The nearest, I suppose, is Ashenhurst’s?”

I corroborated the supposition, and in a moment we had turned up the steps, to discover at the top, smoking his inevitable pipe, my friend, the student. Ashenhurst’s long body uncoiled and rose upright in the darkness.

“Hoped you’d come,” he said briefly, but warmly. “This is Mr.—?”

“Yes,” interrupted Lavender swiftly. “Happy to know you, I’m sure. Hope the studies are coming along well. Gilly says you’re an awful ‘dig,’ you know.”

“Come up,” said Ashenhurst abruptly, sensing a mystery, and we trudged after him up the dark stairs and into his room at the front, where he turned a puzzled face to the detective.

“It’s all right, old man,” smiled Lavender, “but your case is so peculiar that I thought it as well not to shout my name about the neighborhood. One never knows who may be listening. Nothing to add to Gilly’s story, I suppose?”

The tall student shrugged, then glanced uneasily at the clock. “Not yet,” he answered, with a rueful smile, “Soon, maybe!”

We spoke in low tones for a time, while Ashenhurst and Lavender became acquainted, and then the conversation languished.

“It’s getting along,” remarked Lavender at length, “and it’s just as well not to talk too much. I’ve a funny idea at the back of my head. It won’t stand talking about, and it involves silence at this time. Literal silence! I may be quite wrong; but I think that from now until midnight we had better sit quite still. I’m sorry I can’t be more explicit.”

I looked at him curiously in the half-darkness of the room. “The light?” I murmured.

“Yes,” he agreed, “let’s silence the light, too.”

So Ashenhurst, no doubt vastly wondering at this strange conduct on the part of my friend, extinguished his lamp, and in darkness we began our vigil. The moments seemed to crawl as we awaited the zero hour.

From his busy smoking and an occasional restless movement, I knew that Lavender was thinking hard. My own thoughts were bewildered and incoherent, and Ashenhurst’s, I fancy, were no better. What Lavender’s “funny idea” might be puzzled me profoundly; I had seen and heard all that he had seen and heard, and I was quite at sea. This, however, was the usual way of things, and I knew better than to question his decisions.

In the darkness the ticking of the little nickel-plated clock became intolerable. It seemed that hours had passed before Lavender stirred and came upright.

He moved quietly to the window, and in the poor light from the street lamp opposite, looked at his watch. I noted that he kept out of sight of the street.

“Ten minutes more,” he whispered; and again it seemed that the moments crawled.

Ashenhurst moved to my friend’s side, and stood behind the curtains. I instantly followed, overpoweringly curious. Lavender drew our heads together and spoke in a sharp whisper against our ears.

“If he does not come tonight, Gilruth and I shall stay here all night. If he comes, as usual, Gilruth shall stay the night alone, and I shall go home.”

But he came—whoever he may have been.

Lavender’s ears were sharp, but it was the ears of Ashenhurst that first caught the distant patter of feet, as his clutch on our arms betrayed. In a moment we all heard them, swift and terrible in the silence; and convinced as I was that the thing could not be, I felt my scalp stir.

Then the half-darkness opened, and the white figure raced past, as Ashenhurst, with a sharp breath, flung both arms about my shoulders and clung. Lavender’s face was a mask set with glittering eyes. And incredible as it might be, it was the stone figure of the white faun that shot by under the window. The lamplight shone on its white clustered curls and shining shoulders, and made a glory of its body in the instant of its passing.

In the stunned silence that followed, Lavender leaped for the electric lamp on the table and snapped on the current, then leaped again for the door.

“Stay here with Ashenhurst, Gilly,” he crisply ordered. “If there should be trouble, call me at home in an hour, or any time after that. At any rate, see me in the morning.”

A moment later we heard him plunging down the stairs on light feet, heard the street door close behind him, and from the open window saw him run off in the darkness in the direction taken by the fleeing figure.

III

The rest of the night was uneventful. In effect, we slept upon our arms, vaguely alarmed by Lavender’s final remark; but no further sound disturbed the quiet of the little street, and the house itself was silent as a tomb. Not a soul, apparently, had been aroused by Lavender’s departure. In the morning, not much refreshed, we both betook ourselves to Lavender’s room, for Ashenhurst declared himself much too curious, not to say nervous, to think of work that day.

We discovered the detective deep in a file of The Playbill, borrowed from a neighboring public library reading-room. His feet were on the piano bench on which stood his typewriter, and the room was thick with tobacco fumes. He was shaved but otherwise his appearance was negligée in an extreme degree. He greeted our advent with an appraising grin.

“Had breakfast? So have I! Well, watchmen, what of the night?”

Ashenhurst replied for us both that it had been excessively tame. “Anything,” he added, “would have been anti-climax after our adventure.”

“Yes,” agreed Lavender, “destiny is frequently a bit of an artist. My own adventures ended at the same time.”

“He got away, then?” I eagerly inquired.

“Clean as a whistle! I rather expected he would. My start was a trifle late. The best I hoped for was a glimpse, but I was denied even that. The street was blank from end to end when I emerged from the house, and the boulevard was equally deserted. That, of course, is significant, eh?”

“You mean that he didn’t run far? That he may have turned in some place?”

“That is one explanation. Another is that an auto was waiting for him at the corner, engine running and all ready for a quick start. That, as a matter of fact, is what I had in mind when I ran out. I thought that at least I might hear it departing. Not a sound! You may be right about his turning in some place; it’s the logical assumption, for I wasn’t far behind him, surely.”

“In heaven’s name,” broke in Ashenhurst, “what was it? Who was he, if it was a man?”

“I can’t say, of course; but I did get an idea during the night, and it has involved all this reading without much result.” He indicated the scattered journals and smiled faintly.

“Why The Playbill?” I asked.

“Why not?” countered Lavender. “The fellow is no amateur, I fancy. He ran like a professional of some kind—and jumped like a Russian dancer. Consider that, now, in connection with his amazing make-up, and there emerges somebody connected with the stage. Don’t you think?”

“Um-m! Maybe!” I was not enthusiastic.

“Oh, it’s a long shot, of course. But we must consider probabilities until they are shown to be improbabilities. I base my idea on more than a superficial appearance. I’ve been trying to guess what lies behind.”

“I lay awake guessing half the night,” contributed Ashenhurst bitterly.

“And exactly what did you expect to find in The Playbill?” I insisted.

“These are old Playbills. The file goes back three mouths, and ends with last week’s issue. I consider it at least possible that this ingenious fellow had been out of a job for a time. And this valuable weekly carries several columns of cards of professional gentlemen who are ‘at liberty.’ I’m not looking for any particular person; I’m looking for anybody who fits the description I have imagined. You see, if I am right, this fellow is not the principal in the case. What the case is, we have yet to discover; but I think this man is only a subordinate. He may not even know why he runs as he does!”

“I can’t believe that, Lavender,” I demurred.

“It’s very easy to believe,” he assured me. “If for no other reason, I believe him to be a subordinate because he shows himself. If the game is important—and it’s too mad not to be—the principal would not show himself so openly. He might be caught. Suppose instead of waiting upstairs in Ashenhurst’s room, I had been waiting for him in a passageway. I’d have had him, or seen where he went. I think the principal doesn’t care whether this fellow is captured or not. He’d rather the man wouldn’t be caught, of course, but it is not of great importance one way or another.”

“And this principal?” queried Ashenhurst.

“Is working elsewhere,” said Lavender.

“Elsewhere! Then why, for heaven’s sake—?”

Lavender shrugged. “Well, well,” he said, “I may be wrong. I’m no super-detective, Ashenhurst. It’s bad business, I know, to imagine a case and then twist the facts to fit it; but I assure you it’s as safe a gamble as any other method. Any way you tackle a case, you’re as likely to be wrong as right.”

“But, confound it, Jimmie!” I exploded, “why should this fellow show himself at all, in that crazy regalia?”

“Exactly,” agreed Lavender. “Why should he? There is only one conceivable reason that holds water: he wants to be seen. If a man paints himself black and parades the city between sandwich-boards, he’s bound to attract attention. Obviously then, he does it in order to attract attention. But whose attention does our friend want to attract? Just as obviously, he wants to attract Ashenhurst’s attention.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed that young man. “Well, he succeeded!”

“He did, indeed. Oh, I’m sure enough of my ground as far as I have gone. You live in Cambridge Court, and so this fellow runs in Cambridge Court. But other people live in Cambridge Court. You, however, sit up late; your window, at midnight, is the only one in the block that shows a light. There was no other light when I ran out last night, and I am sure there had not been for some time. Further, this fellow ran by four nights in a row—at least four. There may have been other, earlier nights when you didn’t hear the footsteps, but on four nights anyway, he ran past your window. The first two nights you did not look out; the third night you did. He heard your exclamation, and felt sure that he had attracted your attention. Last night was the test, as I read it; and last night we all looked out. And last night, he knew he had attracted you.”

“The deuce he did!”

“Yes,” I said, “how do you know that, Jimmie?”

“Because,” said Lavender, “I saw him look up. You fellows were excited, and were concentrating on a running statue. You didn’t exactly believe in it, but the statue was in your minds—naturally. So all you saw was a running statue—an impossibility. I knew perfectly well that it was not a statue, and was determined not to be too surprised by the sight. So I watched carefully; and as he fled past he looked up at the window—just a half turn of the head as he leaped, but he looked! I saw him! And your lights were out, and my head was half-visible; I took care that it should be. Ergo, our friend believes he saw you looking out, and today he knows that he has succeeded in attracting your attention.”

“Perhaps he saw us all,” I remarked.

“I hope not,” said Lavender vigorously, “and I think not. I kept you a trifle behind me, in deep shadow. You see, my own plans were laid.”

Ashenhurst whistled solemnly for a moment. “And what’s the next step?” he asked, at length. “Will he run again, tonight?”

“Oh, yes, I think he will run every night until something happens.”

“What?” we demanded in the same breath.

“I don’t know,” answered Jimmie Lavender.

Ashenhurst whistled again while he thought that over. “You make me nervous,” he said finally.

“You have a right to be nervous, perhaps,” Lavender nodded. “Although probably you are not in any serious danger. But Gilruth will stay with you every night from now until—well, until the thing happens, whatever it is—and I shall not be far away.”

There was a silence for a moment, during which Lavender looked hard at Ashenhurst. Suddenly he spoke.

“I don’t want to be impertinent, Ashenhurst, but is there any secret about you? Anything in your life that you wish to conceal? Anything somebody else would like to know?”

“Good Lord, no!” The student’s reply was prompt and final.

“You don’t conceal a treasure anywhere in your room, by any chance?”

Ashenhurst laughed loudly. “Not by a large majority!”

Lavender’s thoughts again revolved. Evidently something puzzled him very much. After a moment he began again.

“Do you ever go out at night?”

“Well, not very often. If you say ever, why, of course, I do, sometimes. But my exams are coming on, and I have to study pretty hard. I suppose I haven’t been out after supper for weeks. I’m not much of a social climber, anyway,” finished the student with a smile.

“And you are never home during the day?”

“Never except on Sundays. I work pretty hard at the office.”

“I’ll be hanged if I understand it,” declared Lavender, almost indignantly. “My idea is a very pretty one indeed, but I can’t make it work. There’s something missing; something wrong. Now what the devil can it be?”

“I assure you I’m not concealing a thing,” said Ashenhurst, with some dignity.

Lavender laughed good-humoredly. “I know you’re not, old man! If you were, it would simplify things, immensely. But how about this family—what’s the name?—Harden! How about the Hardens? What have they to conceal?”

“God knows,” replied Ashenhurst, mystified. “They’re as harmless an old couple as ever I met.”

“And the other roomers?”

“Same thing! Two old maids!”

“And the other floors?”

“Know ‘em only by sight; but they seem all right to me. An old man and his daughter downstairs—name of Palmer. Don’t know what he does. Not much of anything, I guess. Upstairs, family named Carr. They’ve got roomers, too—young fellow named Pomeroy, and another young fellow named Peterson. Steady workers, and go to bed early. Oh, the whole house is so respectable it’s almost discouraging!”

“It does seem rather hopeless,” admitted Lavender. “You don’t happen to know who occupies the houses just beside yours? Next door, both ways?”

“Seen ‘em, that’s all. All respectable!”

“It’s a respectable world,” said Lavender dryly. “Well, I must get to work, I suppose. I’ve a long day ahead of me. You fellows can do as you please, but I think you’d better separate during the day. Gilruth can join you after dark—and do it quietly, Gilly! Stay with Ashenhurst all night. I may show up before midnight, and I may not. I’ll be there if I think it’s necessary. And listen! Don’t let our stone friend see you as he gallops past! Keep your light out—and you, Ashenhurst, stare hard out of the window. Gilruth mustn’t be seen, but I want you to be seen. And neither of you are to leave the room on any account unless I tell you to.”

It sounded rather sinister, and we solemnly pledged ourselves to follow his instructions.

“Can’t I go with you, Jimmie?” I asked, somewhat disconsolately.

“Today? It wouldn’t be worth your while. Honestly, old man! A lot of tiresome inquiries, that’s all. If there were any chance of danger, rest assured I’d want you right beside me.”

“I don’t see what you can do,” said Ashenhurst curiously.“You don’t know which way to look, do you?”\

“I’m going to look in a number of directions. I expect to talk with detectives, policemen, citizens, and heaven knows whom else. I’ll be a busy young man for a time. Also, I want to make some close inquiry about a theatrical family by the name of Jordan.”

“Lavender!” I cried reproachfully. “You’ve been holding out on us! You have found something!”

“Well,” he laughed, “just an indication—no more. It’s here in The Playbill, and it may not amount to a thing. You may read the notice for yourselves. On my honor, it’s all I have up my sleeve.”

He selected a paper from the top of the heap and tossed it over to me, then leaned across and placed a finger on a black-face “card,” halfway down a column of advertisements. Ashenhurst, greatly excited, bent over my shoulder and we read the notice together.

“Living Statuary,” ran the first line; and there followed a brief announcement that the “Famous Jordan Family” was now at liberty and was prepared to accept engagements in vaudeville or circus.

A premonitory thrill ran along my spine, and my old newspaper instinct whispered significantly. Intuitively, I felt that Lavender was on the right track.

“You see,” he chuckled, “there are four of them—Tom, Bert, Florence, and Lillian—all of them at liberty.”

“By heaven!” said Ashenhurst huskily, “I believe one of them’s at large!”

IV

The day that followed was a weary one for me; possibly. for Ashenhurst, also. He solved the difficulty, however, by reporting for work, after all, some hours late, whilst I moped in the bookshops and purchased nothing. At six o’clock I joined Ashenhurst, and we supped recklessly at a favorite restaurant where I had hoped we might encounter Lavender. That ingenious person failed to appear, however, and it was with small hope of catching him at home that I called his number on the telephone. To my delight he was in his rooms; had just entered, in fact, when I rang him.

“You are a clairvoyant, Gilly,” he said. “I was just wondering where I could catch you before you started for Ashenhurst’s. Where are you now?”

I told him, adding the information that Ashenhurst was with me.

“Good,” came the familiar voice, across the wires, “send him home at once. He is to stay there until one or the other of us joins him. You must not be seen with him at this time. Tell him not to leave his room in any circumstances, once he gets in it. You are to meet me as soon as dark has fallen, beside the fountain in the square. Understand?”

I understood perfectly, and said so. Ashenhurst was frankly alarmed.

“He must expect trouble tonight,” he said

“All I know is what he told me,” said I. “You follow instructions to the letter, Ash, or you may ball up the whole show.”

“Oh, I’ll behave,” he assured me, and he did, admirably.

Dusk was already settling over the city, and I calculated that if I took a street car I should reach the park at about the appointed time. But a wagon-load of cement very nearly ruined the program; it broke down in front of my car, and tied up traffic for an unconscionable period. When I had waited as long as I dared, I alighted and hailed a passing taxi, performing the rest of my journey in comfort. Even so, it was black dark when I entered Belden Square and hastened toward the central fountain.

Lavender, slightly impatient, awaited my coming.

“We can talk here in safety,” he remarked. “This is about the last place any of our victims will visit tonight. The fountain, I think, has served its purpose. Tonight its counterfeit will run for the last time.”

“Great Scott!” I exclaimed, amazed. “Is it all cleared up?”

“I know nearly everything I need to know,” said Lavender, “except the exact ‘why’ of it all. That I merely suspect. But the case ends tonight, I feel certain—happily, I hope, for Ashenhurst. But he has a dangerous part to play. He seems pretty husky.”

“He’s a whale of a boxer,” said I. “Do you mean that he’s likely to be assaulted?”

“Very likely, I should say. Here’s the situation in a nutshell, and you must carry instructions to Ashenhurst. Jordan is the man—Bert Jordan. I’m convinced of that. That is, he’s the fugitive statue! With the aid of a theatrical friend of mine, I ran down the ‘family’; and the fact is, Bert’s missing! I let it be known that I wanted to hire the whole outfit for a street carnival in Aurora, and said I wanted them all to leave town tonight. Couldn’t be done; they couldn’t locate Bert! Tomorrow night, maybe—they weren’t sure. I think they were sore at Bert, for they wanted the engagement; and I think they don’t know just what he’s up to. I said I’d see them again tomorrow.

“Well, Bert will run tonight, as usual, at midnight; that’s a certainty. That’s where Ashenhurst comes in. I’ll see him before he starts, but you must prepare him. The minute he sees Jordan coming, he is to leave the room, run downstairs after him, and follow him down the street. I think Jordan will give battle, and Ashenhurst must be prepared to defend himself. Jordan may be very ugly. Anyway, there’ll be a couple of plain-clothes men hidden away nearby, and at the proper moment they’ll nab Jordan. If possible, though, I want to know where he goes, for I think he turns in some place in the block, as you once suggested.”

“Where will you be all this time?” I pertinently asked, for by now it was obvious that Lavender’s role was to be cast elsewhere.

“I’ll be in Ashenhurst’s rooms, and so will you. You go to Ashenhurst now, with my instructions. Get into the house quietly; it may be watched. We’ve worked so quickly, though, that I think we have aroused no suspicion. I’ll follow you in a little while, and I, too, must get in without being seen. I could tell you all this later, I suppose; but it may be close to midnight before I can risk entering the house.”

“One question, Jimmie,” I said. “Why is Ashenhurst to run out while we stay behind in the room?”

“Well,” smiled Lavender grimly, “I want it to be supposed that when Ashenhurst runs out, his room is empty.”

“Oh!” I said, suddenly enlightened. “The principal—”

“Is the man I want. Exactly!”

“I see—I think I do! Then the statue—Jordan—was to attract attention?”

“Quite so, and to draw Ashenhurst from his room. That was the ultimate design. It might never have worked, or it might have worked wrong—as it did, by Jove!—but that was the plan. If it had failed, I suppose some other plan would have been worked out.”

“And what is in Ashenhurst’s room?”

“Hanged if I know,” said Lavender. “Whatever it is, somebody wants it pretty badly, don’t you think? And I know, at last, who Mr. Somebody is. I’ll introduce you to him in a little while. Now hurry along, and don’t be seen entering the house. And not a sound, after you have entered, from either of you!”

Well, the affair was getting warm! And something told me that we were all in for a lively evening.

I left the park in leisurely fashion, and plunged into the inky depths of Cambridge Court. Not a soul was in the block as far as could be seen. The trio of sickly street lamps, long distances apart, blinked sadly in the blackness. I passed the first one hastily; the next was in the center of the block opposite Ashenhurst’s room, but on the far side of the street. I approached cautiously, but without ostentatious secrecy, and quietly climbed the stairs of the objective dwelling. The door was unlocked, and I entered without ceremony, climbing stairs again to Ashenhurst’s room so softly that when I had closed his door behind me the student had his first knowledge of my approach.

The room, as usual, was in darkness save for the blaze of light from the electric lamp upon the table. This gleamed on one wall, and was faintly reflected on the window; but the corners of the room were black. I motioned Ashenhurst to silence, and whispered his instructions. He nodded understandingly—relieved, I think, that shortly the whole matter would be ended. A glance at the clock showed three hours before midnight, and another intolerable wait was before us.

At ten o’clock, Ashenhurst snapped off his light at the switch, and the remainder of the vigil was kept in darkness. At eleven, the door creaked gently, and through the blackness Jimmie Lavender came to our side.

“All well,” he whispered. “Our men are placed, and there ought to be no hitch. You understand your part, Ashenhurst?”

“Every comma,” said the long student, in the same tone, “except this damned silence, Mr. Lavender. It gets on my nerves.”

“Sorry,” Lavender whispered back, “but it can’t be helped. The danger is from within the house. I thought you had guessed that. You may smoke if you like.”

We felt better when we had all lighted cigars. The room seemed less black, the silence less profound. So another hour passed away and midnight was upon us.

“Ready!” murmured Lavender. “Stand by the window, Ashenhurst; let yourself be seen. When he passes, rush for the door, with some noise, and downstairs after him. Don’t upset the neighborhood, but don’t be afraid of a little noise. I want it perfectly evident that you are leaving the house.”

Ashenhurst followed instructions without an error. The stone faun held no terror for any of us now, and the patter of racing feet in the outside darkness only told us that the moment for action had come. Ashenhurst, leaning far out of the window, cried out once as the white figure shot past, then jumped for the door and pelted down the stairs in the darkness. I moved toward the window, but Lavender’s hand restrained me.

“Careful!” he sharply whispered. “The trouble begins now—and I don’t know where it will come from!”

Almost as he spoke, there sounded beyond the door a light thudding of feet; then the door creaked and swung inward and a long beam of white light cut a rib-bony path across the carpet. It was followed by the dark figure of a man, holding an electric torch, who, with a swift lithe bound, sprang to a corner of the room and stooped to the boards. It had all happened so quickly that for a moment I was breathless; then as I was about to spring upon the intruder, Lavender’s restraining hand again fell upon my arm. There followed a moment of tense and painful silence, then a crackling sound as of splintering wood, and the heavy breathing of the man in the corner. He was working furiously in the patch of light thrown by his torch, and once, as he half-turned, the gleam fell across a hard, seamed face and an eye that glittered like that of a madman. Save for his asthmatic breathing, and the occasional crackling of wood, the room was heavy with silence.

Our time had come. Lavender’s hand was taken from my arm. Then his voice, swift and hard, and icy as a mountain stream, cut through the chamber.

“Hands up, Wilcox! Quick!” And to me, “Lights, Gilly!”

But as I sprang for the electric lamp, the intruder, ignoring the command and the leveled revolver which he knew lay back of it, flung himself forward in the darkness in the direction of Lavender’s voice. Instantly, I, too, jumped into action, and more by luck than design, blundered at once into the man called Wilcox. In an instant the fight of my life was on.

We met with a shock that was terrific, and clung like tigers. The fellow had a grasp like an animal; against it my own proved powerless. A chair crashed over, and we began to whirl. We whirled until I thought my wits were deserting me. Up and down the room we thrashed, colliding with everything, unmindful of bumps and bruises; and all without a sound from either of us. Inextricably mixed as we were, Lavender could do nothing but encourage me with his voice. My hands tried desperately to work themselves upward to the throat of the man who was crushing me, but I was a child in his grasp. The constant pressure and the wild, whirling waltz had stolen my breath. I felt myself slipping—giving.

At that instant, Lavender, who had discovered the lights, out at the switch, flooded the room with light from every bulb; and at the same instant we crashed into the center table. The impact broke my opponent’s grasp; he sprang back, then leaped for the door. Two seconds later the fight was over, and the man called Wilcox was helpless on the floor. Lavender, cool and collected, had greeted the fellow’s spring with a straight right, shot forward with all the force of the trained back and loins that lay behind it. The blow was terrific, and the man dropped as if he had been pole-axed.

Lavender stooped and studied the hard face for a moment, almost with pity. Then I heard the clink of handcuffs, and with a little shrug my friend rose to his feet.

“Bernard Wilcox,” he said laconically. “Paroled convict—used to occupy this room. Planted his loot here and went to jail. Came back for it tonight.”

He added with a grin, “R. I. P.” Then lighted a cigar and dropped into a chair to await the coming of Ashenhurst.

V

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Oakley Ashenhurst, wearing a highly decorative black eye and a wide smile, tramped upstairs at the head of an extraordinary procession. After him there entered the room two husky detectives, half-carrying between them what had once been the celebrated Bert Jordan of the “Famous Jordan Family,” and behind them stalked a tall, uniformed officer in whom I recognized Captain D’Arcy of the Lincoln Park station. Bringing up the rear was a motley of half-gowned, bathrobed citizens and citizenesses, among whom were the shrinking figures of old Mr. and Mrs. Harden and the two other roomers, elderly women with their hair in curl-papers. It was a sight to move the gods to laughter, and Lavender and I, being essentially human, lay back and laughed. D’Arcy, too, wore a broad grin.

“Got him, I see,” said the police captain, with a nod to the prostrate Wilcox. He stooped over the man on the floor. “Yep, it’s Wilcox!”

Bernard Wilcox, who had recovered his senses, glowered back with evil eyes.

“And you, I see, have Jordan,” said Lavender pleasantly. “The others, I suppose, escaped?”

“Yes,” answered D’Arcy with a frown. “Big auto all ready to pick up Jordan, over in the next block. He had to run through a passage to get to it, and they may have seen us nail Jordan in the passage; I don’t know. Anyway, all we saw when we got over there was a trail of dust and sound.”

“Unimportant,” said Lavender, “although you’ll probably get them through Jordan. Our statue doesn’t seem as lively a cricket as he was a little while ago.”

All eyes were turned back to the amazing figure of Bert Jordan of the “Famous Jordan Family.” He was an astonishing spectacle. From neck to ankle he was encased in dull white fleshings, above which his white, painted face, like that of a clown, now registered profound depression. His hair, elaborately whitened and held in place by a white net, had been curled in neat horns on his brow and temples, but at the moment it was much disordered. On his feet were white gloves of the sort worn by fashionable bathers in the sands of expensive bathing beaches. But the celebrated Bert Jordan had lost much of his “white” in his tussle with Ashenhurst and the police, and he now presented a very lugubrious appearance. I felt sorry for the fellow, and I think Lavender did, too.

“Want to talk, Jordan?” inquired Lavender. “Might as well, you know.”

Jordan grinned sheepishly. “Sure, I’ll talk,” he said, “What d’ya want to know?”

“What did you soak Mr. Ashenhurst for?”

“Dough!” replied Mr. Jordan promptly. “Plenty of dough!”

“So I should imagine. Mr. Wilcox foot the bill?”

“Whatever his name is,” said Jordan.

“He’s a liar!” asserted Wilcox, from the floor, with a string of oaths.

“Well, I’ll talk,” said Lavender. “I’m not a liar. There are some things I want to know. You were out of a job, Jordan, and you met this fellow Wilcox. He offered you a job. Good money in it. You fell for it. But how did you happen to run across Wilcox?”

“Met him in the park up here, one day—near that damn fountain!”

“I see! Of course, that would do it. I ought to have thought of that. Did you know Wilcox before that?”

“He used to be in a circus where I was,” said Jordan, “but his name wasn’t Wilcox then. It was Brown.”

“You’re a liar!” declared Wilcox savagely.

“Hm-m!” grunted Lavender, “That pretty nearly tells me all I need to know. The statue, of course, suggested this crazy scheme to get Ashenhurst out of his room some night. Wilcox knew you were in the statue line, as it were, and so was born the great idea. He suggested it, of course?”

“Sure,” said Jordan. “He said he wanted to get some guy’s goat, and when the guy ran out at me, I was to beat him up, toss him into the auto and take him off somewhere overnight.”

“You had no objections, I suppose?”

“Well,” hedged the circus performer, “I was pretty broke, and I needed the dough. But I didn’t like his dam fool scheme. I told him I’d go up and drag the guy out, if he wanted me to; or throw stones at his window until he chased me. I didn’t want to dress up. It seemed kinda foolish to me.”

“Quite right,” smiled Lavender. “And what do you think of Wilcox—or Brown—now, Mr. Jordan?”

Jordan looked suddenly significant. He turned his eyes on the recumbent Wilcox, almost stealthily. Then he looked at the police captain, and finally back at Lavender. After these elaborate preparations, he raised his forefinger and touched his temple, where a white curl now hung limply.

“I think he’s coo-coo!” he said.

“Excellent,” said Lavender. “So do I! I think, Captain, we shall have to make things as easy as possible for Mr. Jordan, who is, after all, only an erring person of temperament. If your men will remove both of these gentlemen now, we’ll let these good folks go to bed, and I’ll have a chat with you about this case.”

When the prisoners had been removed, and the oaths of Bernard Wilcox had died away in the distance, Lavender resumed his tale.

“Jordan is perfectly right, of course,” he said. “Wilcox is a bit touched. Nobody but a lunatic would have suggested such a scheme to get a man out of his room. The meeting with Jordan gave him the idea, no doubt; that and the proximity. of the statue.”

He turned suddenly to Mrs. Harden, whose attire now had been augmented by a huge shawl,

“Did you recognize this man Wilcox, Mrs. Harden?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, I did! He’s the man upstairs they call Pomeroy!”

“Pomeroy, eh? It had to be either Pomeroy or Peterson. I wasn’t able to see either of them, and so I couldn’t be sure. You see, Gilly, five years ago, before Mrs. Harden had this flat, this Wilcox-or Pomeroy—or Brown—or whatever his real name is-occupied the room now occupied by our friend Ashenhurst. He roomed with a very decent family named Dickson, but he himself was a clever thief. In time, he was caught and sent to Joliet for a stretch. He had planted some of his loot in this room, however; when, not long ago, he was released on parole, he came back here to get it. He couldn’t get the same room, but he was lucky enough to get a room upstairs, and there he laid his plans to get down here and recover the stuff he had planted.

“I suppose he did a lot of thinking about it, while he was tucked away down in Joliet, and after a while he became—shall we say, a bit obsessed? Once located upstairs—he had a room at the back, I believe—his problem was to get into Ashenhurst’s room some time when Ashenhurst was out. It would seem at first glance to be an easy enough problem, but as it turned out it was a hard one. For one reason and another, he couldn’t gain access, and, finally he hit upon this mad scheme to force Ashenhurst out. I saw D’Arcy today, and he was able to give me some information that fitted in with my preconceived idea of things.

“It was obvious from the first that Jordan’s amazing performance was to draw attention to himself, and after a bit it became equally obvious that he was trying to lure Ashenhurst from the house. But why? So that he, or somebody else, could get into Ashenhurst’s room. I preferred to believe it was somebody else—that Jordan was only a subordinate. This turned, out to be correct, for Jordan now has no idea what Wilcox wanted in this room. It was necessary to find a trace of somebody who for some years had been absent from society, who had occupied this room—at least, this house. D’Arcy remembered a number of men who might answer, among them Wilcox. I looked them all up in the police records, and Wilcox was the man. Under that name he had once been known to live at this address. He had lived here at the time he was sent to Joliet. And when I learned that recently he had been paroled, the whole case was clear. I knew that Bernard Wilcox was somewhere in or near this house, and that Jordan was his agent. I’m hanged if I know whether Wilcox’s scheme to draw Ashenhurst out was a stupid one or a very clever one. Its very madness bothered me, and kept me from guessing the motive earlier than I did.”

D’Arcy, who had listened with many approving nods, now cleared his throat.

“And exactly what did Wilcox want here?” he asked. “Where is this loot, Lavender?”

Lavender rose to his feet and strode over to the corner of the room in which the convict had been at work.

“It is under this splintered board,” he said. “As you represent authority here tonight, suppose you investigate.”

The police captain was beside him at a bound. “By jigger!” he exclaimed, and fell furiously to work.

With a resounding crack the board at length came up—and neatly packed beneath it, in the narrow groove, lay little packages of bills and papers, and a bag of jewels, that cleared the mystery of a dozen unsolved robberies.

When the captain, with many eulogies and handclasps, had departed with his treasure, I turned with a broad grin to Jimmie Lavender, and found him grinning at me. The Hardens, who still remained, looked mystified, and Ashenhurst alternately puffed at his cigar and stroked his battered eye.

“There is one question, Jimmie,” I began; but he took the words away from me.

“That you don’t find an answer to! Neither do I! Gilly, and you, Ashenhurst, and you, too, Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Harden—you have seen me turn over two prisoners and a young fortune to the police. You have seen me do things that no doubt appear very clever. Yes, I am a very clever young man! And from first to last there has been one thing I didn’t know, and don’t know now. It has bothered me more than any one detail I have ever encountered; and there seems to be no answer. This case is ended—the men are locked up, or will be shortly—and I know that my reasoning throughout has been accurate and justified. But I’m hanged if I’m not still bothered by that one question. Tell them what it is, Gilly!”

“Why didn’t Wilcox get in during the day when Ashenhurst was at work? Why did he wait until night when he knew Ashenhurst would be at home?”

“There you have it!” agreed Lavender. “Why—exactly why? It was the obvious thing for him to do, the simplest thing to do, one would think. I have no doubt at all that he tried it and failed—but why? In the morning, no doubt, he would be likely to encounter Mrs. Harden on her cleaning-up expedition; but the afternoons were safe. He had a clear field. From at least one o’clock until five, the house would be practically deserted, and this room would be empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Why didn’t he, Ashenhurst?”

A queer clucking noise sounded suddenly from the throat of Mrs. Harden. Her lips were working frantically. It was difficult to say whether she was about to laugh or weep. Lavender gazed upon her with growing suspicion.

“Why, why—” she stammered, “the fact is, Mr. Ashenhurst—I didn’t think there would be any harm in it. I’m getting a bit old—and your bed is the best in the house, you know! I was sure you wouldn’t mind—The fact is, Mr. Ashenhurst, I always came in here for a bit of a nap in the afternoon—right after dinner—and slept till Mr. Harden came in at half-past five. I’m sure—”

But if she ever finished her embarrassed speech, I did not hear the end, for in the midst of it Lavender, with a joyous roar, flung himself across the bed in question and laughed until he cried.