The Professor's Mystery

  CHAPTER XII

  AN AMATEUR MAN-HUNT WHEREIN MY OWN POSITION IS SOMEWHAT ANXIOUS

  Sheila herself opened the door for me.

  "You're Mr. Crosby, I suppose," she said, with that elusive reminiscenceof a brogue that may not be put into words. "Sure, I'm obliged to you.An awful weight I must have been."

  "You were no feather," I grinned. "Where is Miss Tabor?"

  "She's in the library, sir, with a young gentleman. There's a letterhere for you, sir." She pointed to a mail-strewn table near the door.Sure enough there was one--from Bob Ainslie, I judged, by the scrawledaddress.

  A young gentleman in the library--who on earth could he be, and what didthe fellow want?

  "I've been three days finding you, you see," he was saying, "but I guessthere's no doubt I've got you right. Now, I don't want to make anytrouble--"

  The rest of the sentence was too low to hear. I had been rippingabsently at the letter, and now I glanced down at it. Then I stared withstartled eyes and turned over the envelop to re-read the address. It wasa dirty envelop, of the same shape as my own which still lay upon thetable, and addressed not to me, but to Mr. Tabor. I carefully replacedthe single sheet and as carefully stowed the whole in an inner pocket.It seemed a matter for Mr. Tabor's eyes alone.

  Lady's voice came clearly through the curtained door. I thought itsounded a little strained.

  "Mr. Maclean, I don't see why you should come to me at all about thismatter. If we have a dark green automobile, so have ten thousand people.And your story of millionaire kidnappers on an errand of violence ishardly the kind of thing--if this is a joke, it seems to me in very poortaste."

  "It won't quite do, Miss Tabor," the man answered. "'Tisn't a joke, andmaybe the best thing you can do is to be frank with me."

  "What am I to be frank about? You see, Mr. Maclean, the last man thatcame in to talk frankly wanted to sell us silver polish. Excuse me, butyou have really nothing to sell, have you?"

  He laughed, humorously embarrassed. "Why, no. At least, I don't want tosell you anythin'. Don't you sometimes call yourself Lady?"

  "Mr. Maclean!"

  "I only mean," he hurried on, "that I found your telegram on the floor.'Coming for you in the car,' you said. Honestly, don't you think we'rewastin' time?"

  Lady gave a little cry, and with two strides I was at the door and hadjerked aside the curtain. "If this fellow is annoying you--" I began.

  The two were standing before me, Lady leaning back against the table asif at bay. The man was taller than I, and thin with vibrant energy. Heturned half about at my voice.

  "Jumping June-bugs!" he cried airily. "It's Crosby!"

  "No other, Mac," I laughed. "What in the world are you ragging MissTabor about?"

  Maclean blushed. "See here, Laurie," he stammered, "I'm a newspaper man,you see? What's more, I'm thought by some to be a good one. I've got thegoods on this story, and you people ought to come across. It won't hurtyou any. Were you the cheese that lugged the murdered scrubess downthree flights of stairs?"

  Lady looked at me imploringly. But the cat was so far out of the bag bynow that I had to use my judgment. "I was," I answered. "What are yougoing to make out of it?"

  "Now you're talkin'. Tell me the story."

  "Not for publication," said I, with a glance at Lady, "because there'sno story to publish. In the first place, you're barking up the righttree, but it's a mighty little one. In the second place, I've fallen solow as to be an assistant professor with a dignified reputation. NeitherMiss Tabor nor I is going to be head-lined to make a journalisticholiday; and if we were, you wouldn't write it."

  Maclean gnawed a bony knuckle, and pondered. "Darn you," he said. "Begyour pardon, Miss Tabor--I s'pose I can't, after that. But you'll admitI had the goods. I don't see how I can go back with nothing. They sendme out on these things because I generally make good, you see?"

  "Your imagination always was your greatest charm. Get to work, and useit. Miss Tabor, this human gimlet is 'Stride' Maclean. Let me give hima decent introduction: he probably slighted the matter. This gentleman,for he was a gentleman before he became a star reporter, had the honorto belong to my class, and he sings a beautiful tenor. Naturally he waspopular; he may even have friends yet. We'll tell him all about it, andthen perhaps we'll drown him. One crime more or less matters little topeople of our dye."

  Maclean scowled at me and laughed.

  "Well, it all amounts to this. First, nobody has been murdered--as yet!"and I frowned at him. "Secondly, nobody has been kidnapped; lastly, itisn't a story, unless you are on the comic supplement. This Mrs. Carucciused to be Miss Tabor's nurse, and when Antonio beats her up toofrequent, she comes up here for a vacation. Well, we were late going forher because the car broke down; so when we got there, he had justsmitten her over the brow and retired to a well-earned slumber. Then theneighbors got inquisitive, and we ran away to escape precisely thatimmediate fame you were planning to give us. That's all. I will only addthat branderine revived this wash-lady and we can prove it."

  "Oh, fudge," said Maclean, "I can't write anything out of that at all.We had it before, all but you people. I hate to go back without a story,too."

  The front door clicked, and I heard Mr Tabor's voice in the hall.

  "Wait a minute," I said, with a sudden inspiration, "perhaps I can digup another story for you. But I'll have to see Mr. Tabor first."

  I found Mr. Tabor in his study, glooming over a paper. "What is it?" heasked, half rising. "Is anything the matter?"

  "I don't know," I said. "I opened a letter of yours by mistake, and itlooked as if I had better bring it to you myself."

  He took the dirty envelop gingerly, and drew out the inclosure. Acrossthe top was a badly drawn human hand smudged in with lead-pencil. Belowthis ran an almost illegible scrawl.

  "_If yu dont giv her back she wil be taken._"

  "What on earth does that mean?" I asked.

  Mr. Tabor knit his white brows. "It begins to look as though Carucci hadbeen let out of jail for want of proof against him. Evidently he isgoing into the black hand business. I suppose a demand for money willcome next."

  "But who is 'her'--his wife?"

  "Of course," he answered quickly. "Who else could it possibly be?" Then,more thoughtfully, "I don't like the fellow around, but I hardly see howto get rid of him. We can't appear in court against him; and money wouldonly make him want more."

  "Mr. Tabor," I said, "there's a man named Maclean in the other room, whowent to college with me. He is a reporter--"

  "A _what_?"

  "A reporter. He found Miss Tabor's telegram--we were careless not tohave looked for it--and that gave him enough to work on until he foundus. However, you needn't have any uneasiness about him. He has promisedme not to use the story."

  "Good, Crosby, very good. Well, what about him?"

  "I only thought, sir, that if he would help me, we might be able to findCarucci, and scare the life out of him so that he will keep away. Hecan't be certain that he hasn't killed his wife, and we can threaten himwith that. If he's out of jail, you certainly don't want him about. AndMaclean would help, I think, for the story in it. I'm sure that we couldtrust him not to bring us in."

  "Very well. Suppose that you try your hand at it. Only you mustn't goto making inquiries that will mix us up in the matter."

  "I'll be careful, sir," I answered.

  When I spread the note out before Mac he sniffed and wrinkled his nose.

  "Well?" I said.

  "Nothin'. There ain't any black hand. It's all dope. Just a signaturethat any dago uses, like 'unknown friend.'"

  "You ought to know," said I, "but here we are with this man hangingaround. Take it or leave it. I should think there might be a story in itmerely from his side, now that you can really connect him with theassault. Anyhow, I'm going after him."

  "All right," Mac said, "I'm with you. Good afternoon, Miss Tabor."

  "Good-by," she called after us; and I thought that she watched us
fromthe window.

  We pursued a trolley car and settled down panting on the rear seat.Maclean lay back in a meditative silence, his hands thrust deep into histrousers pockets, his shoulders hunched forward and his hat on the backof his head, staring before him where his feet loomed up in thedistance. At the inn he suddenly straightened himself and slid off thecar.

  "I thought we were going up to town?" I said as I followed.

  He glowered hollowly at me above a cavernous grin. "We are. But not inthose flannels or that nice new college rah-rah shirt. We'd have thewhole place wonderin' what you wanted, and the mothers showin' theirlittle ones how a real gentleman ought to look."

  "But you're respectable enough," I protested, laughing. "Are we bothgoing to be disguised?"

  "Disguise nothin'. You just want to cut out the comedy-chorus-man, yousee? Put on a jersey, or anyhow a collar that don't meet in the middle,an' old shoes. Me, I look low-life anyway."

  I rebelled when he rolled my gray suit into a ball and jumped on it, inthe interest of realism. But at last we got started. On the car, Macunfolded his plan of campaign.

  "This guinea didn't put the cops on, because he wanted to get youhimself, you see? He's out for the money--the mazume. So he beats it uphere and drops Tabor a love-letter. _But_, he's just out of the jug, yousee? An' he knows the force'll watch out for him. So he'll mix up with alot of other dagoes, an' maybe get a job daytimes, so's to have anexcuse for bein' here. Well, he don't love work, but he does lovebooze; an' he gets through at five P. M. with an awful thirst. So we'llhunt for him first where they sell the demon rum."

  He dived into the police station, leaving me standing outside, andpresently emerged with the lust of the hunter in his eye.

  "I've located every cheap red-eye emporium in our beautiful little city.Now you spot all the fruit stores an' shoeblacks an' guinea grocers wepass, an' we'll take them later."

  "You'll have to be careful how you inquire after him," I said.

  "I ain't. I'm lookin' for his cousin, Giuseppe, that looks like him.Blue, an' hairy, an' tattoo-marks on his hands, you said. Come on."

  We went through two or three saloons, where Maclean loitered what seemedto me an unconscionable time, weaving into an elaborate discussion ofthings in general, some curiosity as to the whereabouts of an Italiandebtor whose name and personal affairs varied surprisingly without inthe least altering his description. I knew that Mac had an inventivegenius, but I was astonished at its fertility of detail.

  "I didn't expect anythin' in those joints," he confided, as we pushedthrough a swinging door. "They're a peg too good for him. I just wantedto hear myself talk, an' get up my speed. Now, this place looks better.You take seltzer after this, or a cigar. Their snake-medicine'd poisonyou. Me, I'm immune."

  It was low-ceiled and smoky, and full of large cuspidors and smalltables. The bottles were fewer, and glittered with gilt ornamentation,like the bottles in a barber shop. A veil of dingy mosquito nettingprotected the mirrors. The bartender was blue-shaven and deliberate,with a neat trick of sliding bottles and glasses, without upsettingthem, several feet along the dark, dull surface of the bar.

  "Giovanni Scalpiccio been in to-night?" Mac asked casually, after tenminutes of excise problems and the pure food law.

  "If he has, he ain't left his visiting-card," returned the bartender."What do you think I am--delegate from the organ-grinders' union? Idon't keep tab on every I-talian dago that comes into the place. Whatkind of a lookin' feller is he?"

  "I don't know. They all look alike to me. Oh, a monkey-faced guy, alltattooed--works up the line here a little. His wife owes me on asewin'-machine. Told me he was down here."

  "Seems to me I seen that feller," the bartender reflected. "Talks allchokey, don't he? Yes, he was in to-night, about half an hour ago. Madean argument becuz I wouldn't hang him up--if that's him."

  I waited, shuffling with impatience, while Maclean bought cigars andslowly changed the subject. Then I burst out of doors so hurriedly thatI collided with two harmless-looking individuals who were coming in.

  "What shall we do now?" I demanded.

  "Take a cigarette instead o' that Simsbury cabbage, an' cool off. Ifit's our guinea, he's huntin' free drinks all up the street. We'll runinto him the next two or three places, somewhere."

  In the next we drew a blank, but in the one after that we learned thatour man had just left; and to my disgust, were forced to listen to acircumstantial account of his pleas and expedients in quest of liquor oncredit. I was more certain than ever that it was Carucci himself, andhurried Mac on to the next saloon. To my surprise, he led the way to atable in the farthest corner and sat down with his back to the door.

  "You look here, Laurie," he muttered, leaning across the table as thebartender went back for our order. "There's more doing in this thanwe're wise to. Did you see those two ginks that we ran into in the doorback there?"

  "No," said I, "what about them?"

  "Well, that's what little Mac wants to know, the first thing he does.They're after the same dago, or else they're after us, you see? Everyjoint we've been in, those two float along after a couple of minutes,all cagey, not seein' anybody. An' they look like guineas themselves.There they come now."

  He spoke without turning his head, and I looked past him at the two menentering the room. They were small, sallow, and respectable, one of themdecidedly fat; and they looked to me like small Italian tradesmen intheir Sunday or traveling clothes. They stood at the bar, talkingbetween themselves with rapid speech and gesture, and paying not thesmallest attention to us. They did not even glance around the room, soabsorbed were they in their own conversation.

  "You're crazy," said I, "they don't even know we're here."

  "All right. Maybe you think I've covered police stuff five years withoutknowin' when I'm being gum-shoed. I've seen that fat bologna before,somewhere, too. I ain't after a martyr's crown. Now, I tell you what youdo. You pike out an' go back to that first place where we got the scent,an' wait around till I come. If they follow you there, you duck for thebusy street, an' go home. If they don't I'll be along myself prettyquick. I want to know who they're after, you see?"

  "What do you think they are?"

  "I don't think yet: I'm goin' to know. Now you beat it--an' for Heaven'ssake, jolly the barkeep for all you know how, an' try not to look as ifyou were wanted for arson."

  I obeyed, wondering if Maclean's instinct for sensation had got thebetter of him. The two men took no notice whatever as I passed them, butwent on with their talk. I heard enough to gather that they werediscussing the price of butter. Yet, despite my skepticism, I walked upthe street with something the sensation of having just passed a smallboy with an ominous snowball. The other saloon was fairly crowded, andit was some minutes before I found myself drinking a very evil beer.

  "Say," said the bartender, sliding my change down to me, "you're the guythat asked about the guinea, ain't yer?"

  "Why, my friend was," I said carelessly. "Has he been back? He owes himfor a--"

  "That'll do all right to tell." He leaned across the bar, dropping hisvoice, "The reason I asked yer's because there's two other fellers afterhim, too. Guess _they_ sold him a grand piano, likely."

  He moved along to attend to other customers, leaving me staringexcitedly about the room. A moment later, he came back again, swabbingthe bespattered bar with a towel. As he passed me without a look, heturned his thumb over and motioned, as if the gesture were part of hiswork, toward the corner by the door. There sat the two little men at atable, still absorbed in discussion.

  My throat became suddenly dry. I had started out hunting with the houndsto find myself running with the hare; and the notion of being shadowedby unknown Italians was more melodramatic than agreeable. With aconfused memory of all the detective stories I had ever read seething inmy mind I lounged toward the door, gained the street, and started offon a run. I turned the first corner, ran half way down the block, thenwalked quietly back. The two men were nowhere to be seen. A
s I stood onthe corner, one of them, the thinner one, came slowly out of the saloon,pausing to light a cigarette, and strolled casually away from me up thestreet. It seemed impossible that he had any interest in me, but I wouldbe sure. I followed carefully after him for half a dozen blocks. Heneither looked around nor altered his pace in the least; and where wecrossed the car tracks, I stood and watched him go steadily on out ofsight. Then I jumped on a passing car, congratulating myself on havingcarried out my instructions, even though they had been ratherunnecessary. And on the outskirts of the town, I stepped off to wait formy own car. Just as it turned the corner, some one touched me on thearm.

  "Pardon; have you a match?"

  I swallowed my heart down again with a gulp. The fat Italian scratchedthe match on his shoe, and breathed a soft cloud of smoke.

  "Thank you, sare. Now tell me," he took me confidentially by the elbow,"w'at is it you want with Antonio Carucci?"

  My car was passing. "I never heard of him," said I as blankly as Icould. "You've got the wrong man."

  "Excuse me, sare. No mistake at all." He smiled deprecatingly.

  The car was almost beyond reach. "All right," I said. "Come in here, andif you can show any right to ask, I'll tell you." Then, as we turnedtogether toward the hotel behind us, I flung him on his face with asudden wrench, and sprinted after the car. As I clung gasping on theback platform, I heard a shout, and saw him following at a waddling run,waving his arm angrily. The car stopped; and for a sickening instant, Ithought that my last device had been in vain. But at that moment acouple of men ran from the sidewalk behind my pursuer and caught him bythe coat. The three stood in the middle of the street, wrangling andgesticulating; and the conductor, with a disgusted jerk of the bell,started the car again.

  Later in the evening, Maclean called me up on the telephone.

  "Say, you made a pretty good getaway for an amateur. Did you see us stopyour fat friend?"

  "What? Was that you?"

  "Sure was it; me and the other one. Now listen. Hello! Can you hear?Those two parties are plain-clothes men after the other party. That'swhat they let him out for, to watch him, you see? I'm with 'em now. Youpeople better just lie as low as you can, and do nothin' at all, if youwant to keep out of it. And if I get wise to anythin' I'll call you up.Good-by."

  And his receiver went up with a cluck.