CHAPTER XVII.
THE QUARRY.
Half an hour later, Sturgis was walking briskly down Broadway, with his usual air of absent-minded concentration. Presently he turned into a side street and at once slackened his pace. He now sauntered along like a lounger at a loss how to kill a long idle day. The show window of a bric-à-brac shop arrested his attention. He stopped to examine its contents.
A little farther up the street was a liquor saloon, outside of which stood a group of boisterous young rowdies. An older man, evidently in his cups, was seated on an adjoining stoop, where, with maudlin gravity, he seemed to be communing with himself.
On the opposite side of the way stood a low, dilapidated brick house. A painted sign over the windows of the ground floor bore the name, "MANHATTAN CHEMICAL CO."
The drunken man rose unsteadily to his feet and approached Sturgis with outstretched hand.
"Say, Jimmy, get on ter his nibs strikin' de bloke fur a nickel ter git med'cine fur his sick mudder," exclaimed one of the young ruffians.
The wretched-looking individual thus designated seemed hardly able to stand as he steadied himself against an iron railing; but the eyes he turned upon Sturgis were bright with intelligence, and the words he spoke were uttered in a low, firm voice.
"He's been here—been here twice."
"Twice?" echoed Sturgis, surprised. "Where is he now?"
"I don't know——"
"You don't know?"
"No, sir; but I guess Conklin does. This is how it is: It was my watch yesterday afternoon when Chatham came the first time. He went into the Manhattan Company's place through the basement at a quarter after five. So I just settled myself out here and waited. Well, I waited and waited, but there wasn't any sign of Chatham, and when Flagler came along to relieve me at ten o'clock Chatham hadn't come out yet. Flagler he spotted the place until six this morning, and then Conklin took his turn again until two o'clock, when I came on for my watch. Just as Conklin was telling me how things stood, who should come down the street but Chatham himself, large as life."
"Down the street?" exclaimed Sturgis.
"Yes, sir. And up he goes, as if nothing had happened, and into the Manhattan Chemical Company's place again."
"He had put up the back-door game on you," said the reporter.
"Yes, sir; just what I said to Conklin. So, quick as a wink, I sent him around the block to keep his eye peeled on the next street and I waited here. And here I've been ever since. If Conklin isn't on the block above, it must be because Chatham has made tracks again, and he after him."
"I'll go and find out," said Sturgis. "Has any one else called at the Manhattan Chemical Company's office since you have been on watch?"
"No, sir; but a couple of hours ago an express wagon came along and delivered a long wooden box; might have been chemicals for the wholesale department, for it was lowered to the cellar by the hoist in the areaway. The blond young man receipted for the box."
"Very well, Shrady. Hang on a little while longer, and I shall have you relieved just as soon as I possibly can."
So saying, the reporter, who had been pretending to look through his pockets for a coin, ostentatiously slipped a nickel into the outstretched palm before him. The light seemed to die out of the sharp eyes of the detective, and it was the miserable drunkard who staggered back to his place on the stoop next to the saloon, unmindful of the gibes of the young rowdies congregated there.
Sturgis walked up to the next street, where he found a second detective on duty.
"Anything new, Conklin?" he asked.
"No, sir; he's been lying low; looks like he knew he was spotted this time."
"Good. Stay here until I can notify the police that we have run down the quarry. It will be necessary to obtain a search warrant for the Manhattan Chemical Company's place. In the meantime, if Chatham should attempt to make tracks, hang on to him like his shadow and send back word here as soon as you can."
"All right, sir."
Sturgis, after leaving Conklin, walked along the street which the detective was watching and carefully inspected every house on the block. Almost all were huge office buildings; but here and there an old-fashioned brown-stone front stood out conspicuously against the broad expanse of brick walls and iron columns. Half way down the street one of these old houses stood well back from the street line behind a small garden. The reporter stopped near this and read the numbers on the adjoining buildings.
"This is directly back of the Manhattan Chemical Company's office," he mused. "I wonder who lives here. It looks like a respectable place enough. One could obtain a good view of the rear of the Manhattan Chemical Company's office from the back windows. H'm——"
He stood thoughtfully considering what pretext he could use to gain admission to the house, when suddenly he became aware of the presence of a man who had approached with noiseless steps.
"Ah, is that you, Mr. Sturgis?" said the calm, sardonical voice of Doctor Murdock.
The reporter started inwardly but gave no outward sign of surprise.
"Were you about to do me the honor of calling?" continued the chemist.
"Yes," said Sturgis, deliberately; "I was about to seek an interview with you. Can you spare a few minutes?"
"Who is it that asks for the interview?" inquired Murdock, with quiet sarcasm. "Is it Mr. Sturgis, gentleman, Mr. Sturgis, reporter, or——"
Sturgis met a cold gleam from Murdock's inscrutable eyes.
"Or Mr. Sturgis, the famous detective?" continued the chemist with an imperceptible sneer.
"I represent the Tempest," replied the reporter quietly.
Murdock glanced carelessly up and down the street. There was no one in sight.
"Oh! very well," he said, taking out his latch-key and leading the way to the house; "come into my study and let me hear what I can do for the Tempest."
On entering the house, Murdock motioned Sturgis to the door leading from the hall into the drawing-room.
"If you will step into the parlor for a few minutes, I shall be with you directly," said he.
Sturgis nodded acquiescence, and, while Murdock walked toward his study, which was at the extreme rear of the hall, the reporter opened the drawing-room door. He did not open it very wide, however, neither did he enter; for although the room was rather dark, his quick eye caught a passing glimpse of a feminine head cosily nestled upon a distinctly masculine shoulder, the owner of which had his back turned to him. Bachelor cynic though he was, Sturgis had not the heart to interrupt so interesting a situation; and, as the couple were so absorbed that they had not noticed the intrusion upon their tête-à-tête, he discreetly retreated and softly closed the door.
By this time Murdock had passed into his study, so that Sturgis found himself alone in the hall. He was glad of a short respite during which he might collect his thoughts; for, having been taken by surprise, he had not had time to select a plausible topic for the interview which he had solicited from Murdock. Not knowing that the house was that of the chemist, his sole object had been to gain admittance, so that he might be able to observe the Manhattan Chemical Company's offices from the rear, and if possible to ascertain how Chatham had managed to give the detectives the slip the first time he appeared to them.
Now that he was in the house the reporter was confronted with the necessity of explaining his presence there without betraying his true purpose. This would not have been a difficult matter had the inmates of the house been total strangers; but he felt that it would be by no means so easy to offer an explanation which would be satisfactory to a man of Murdock's keen perception. And Murdock was the last person to whom he would have confided the true reason of his visit; not only because the chemist, as his opponent in the wager concerning the Knickerbocker Bank Mystery, was interested in thwarting rather than in aiding his investigation, but chiefly because he felt a strong instinctive distrust of the man.
As these thoughts were passing through the reporter's mind, he slowly paced the long hall, back and forth, with his hands behind his back. In so doing, he passed a door which was slightly ajar and caught a glimpse of long rows of book-shelves loaded with beautifully bound editions. The place was evidently the library. It occurred to him that a library is a public room and that he would be more comfortable in there than in the hall.
He pushed open the door and looked in. The room was empty. He entered.
The library occupied a space between the parlor and the rear room into which Murdock had entered, and it was separated from each of these rooms by folding-doors over which hung heavy portières.
Sturgis was a lover of books; his interest was at once aroused in the collection before him. It was admirably selected from the standpoint of a philosopher and a man of science. Every department of history, of philosophy and of science had its section, in which the volumes were classified and arranged with intelligent care. But curiously enough, poetry and art were but meagerly represented.
One section especially attracted Sturgis's attention. It was devoted entirely to the history of crime in all its phases and in all ages. Criminal statistics, criminal jurisprudence and the psychology of crime, as well as the biographies of all the noted criminals of ancient and modern times, were completely represented. Almost the only works of fiction in the collection were in this section, and included every book imaginable concerning criminals and their deeds. Many rare and curious volumes were there—some of them so rare that they could be found in only a few of the great libraries of the world.
Here Sturgis was in his element. He had himself collected a valuable library on the subjects kindred to his profession; but here were books many of which none but a Crœsus could ever hope to own. He was soon absorbed in an examination of some rare volumes which he had often longed to possess.
While thus engaged, he became aware of the murmur of voices from the rear room. As the words spoken could not be distinguished, he paid no special attention to them; but, instinctively, he noted that one of the voices flowed in the calm, even tones so characteristic of Murdock's speech, while the other, whose timbre and modulations were unknown to him, betrayed the repressed excitement of the speaker.
It soon became evident that Murdock's interlocutor was fast losing control of himself; for he gradually pitched his voice in a higher key, until occasional words began to reach Sturgis's ears. The reporter was not the man to wantonly play the part of eavesdropper; therefore, although the isolated words which reached him brought no connected sense, he judged that it was time to move out of earshot of the conversation to which he was becoming an involuntary listener. Replacing upon its shelf the book which he had been examining, he started toward the hall door. As he did so, he heard the now thoroughly excited individual exclaim in loud tones:
"I don't care a damn for the money. I only went into the scheme because you promised she'd have me; and, by God, if I don't get her, I'll give the whole cursed thing away."
Sturgis, who had reached the hall door, pricked up his detective's ears at these words. But in another second he heard the knobs of the folding-doors rattle, as though some one had placed his hands upon them.
Quick as thought, he opened the door and glided out into the hallway. He had not time to pull the door quite to behind him when the folding-doors opened and he heard Murdock say in his calm, frigid tones:
"Perhaps you have done that already with your dulcet voice."
Had Murdock seen him? The reporter asked himself the question. Probably not; for he heard the folding-doors close once more.