Chapter 9. The Brass Baggage-Check

________________________________________________
_ Chapter IX. The Brass Baggage-Check

It is not every day in the week that a hand-organ plays "Celeste Aida" under one's window with an F natural in the third bar where the music rightfully calls for F sharp. Nor is it usual to send out a quarter of a dollar to the man as an inducement for him to retire, and then to receive in return a New York Central baggage-check numbered 18329, and reading from Cleveland to New York. Esper Indiman and I exchanged smiles.

"This looks like the real thing," said my friend. "My dear Thorp, there must be some rare element in your chemical make-up that serves to precipitate these delightful mysteries. Adventures fairly flock about us. We shall have to screen the doors and windows or be overwhelmed. Seriously, I am infinitely obliged to you, for I had started on my eleventh game of solitaire, and was beginning to feel a trifle bored. But now--now there is something doing, as Mr. Devery would remark. Let us start the ball rolling by giving Bolder the third degree."

Bolder, recalled, was disposed to be cheerfully communicable. Certainly he would know the man again; he had a good look at him. The sun was shining brightly, and it had fallen full on the fellow's face.

"Describe him, then," said Indiman, note-book in hand.

Put to the test, Bolder was not so good a witness as we had hoped for; he wandered and grew confused in his statements. Light hair? Yes, it might have been that--though, now that he thought of it, the shade was rather on the darkish order. An old man? Well, not noticeably so; perhaps thirty-five or a little younger.

"Or a little older--say fifty-five?"

"Well, it might have been fifty-five, sir. I couldn't swear to it exactly."

"That will do, Bolder," said Indiman, and our witness retired abashed.

"Check number one," commented Indiman. "Suppose we try the Grand Central now. We won't take out the carriage; the day is fine and I want the walk."

It was a beautiful morning in August, cool and clear, and we strode along briskly. A hand-organ began playing in a side street, and we stopped to listen. "It's the same aria," I said, excitedly--"'Celeste Aida.' What tremendous luck! No, it isn't; deuce take it!" I went on, dejectedly.

"But you just said it was the same," persisted Indiman.

"With a difference," I hastened to explain. Now, Indiman is not musical, and I had some trouble in convincing him that within the compass of a semitone a veritable gulf may yawn. This particular organ played the phrase in the third bar correctly--F sharp and not F natural--and consequently it could not be the same instrument that had vexed my ears half an hour ago at No. 4020 Madison Avenue.

"There is a real difference, then?" said Indiman, thoughtfully. "One that you would recognize again?"

"At any place or time," I answered, confidently. "It is an absolute means of identification, quite as much so as a glass eye would be in a man's face."

"Very good. We'll find that hand-organ, then, if we have to go through 'Little Italy' with a drag-net. How beautifully the problem is working out!--almost too beautifully."

At the incoming baggage-room Indiman presented the check numbered 18329. A porter appeared with a large trunk loaded on a truck. "City transfer?" he asked.

"No, I'll take it with me," said Indiman. "Thorp, will you get a hack."

We were about to drive off, and I felt for my match-box. Provoking! I must have left it at home, and I wanted a cigarette. "One moment," I called, and jumped out, having caught sight of Ellison, who had been with me in college. He was hurrying into the station. I should be glad to have a word with him and secure a match at the same time. But somehow I missed him in making my way through the swinging doors. Ellison was nowhere to be seen, and I had to content myself with getting a light at the cigar counter. I went back to the carriage and climbed in.

"It was Ellison," I explained. "A good chap, and I should have liked to meet him."

"Some other time, perhaps," said Indiman, politely, and we drove off.

"So you've got it," I said, staring up at the trunk that occupied the box at the hackman's left. "It looks ordinary enough."

"The porter told me that it came in last night on the Lake Shore Limited," said Indiman. "Nothing remarkable about that, either."

A sudden thought struck me. "By Jove! we're no better than thieves," I said, frowningly. "The possession of a baggage-check doesn't necessarily carry with it the ownership of the parcel for which it calls. The rightful proprietor may be even now at the Grand Central explaining the loss of the check and trying to identify his property."

Indiman looked a little blank. "Of course, your obvious theory may be the true one," he said, slowly. "The hunting of mare's-nests is a weakness of mine. But what are you about there?"

"Telling the driver to take us back to the station," I answered, with my hand on the check-cord.

"I don't know about doing that--just now. There might be some awkward explanations to make to your hypothetical owner. Or, failing him, to the police."

"It doesn't absolutely follow," he continued, "that there is an owner or that he is anxious to claim and recover his property. He may have substantial reasons for wanting to get rid of it. Remember that the baggage-check was handed in at my door with the express direction that it was to be given to the gentleman of the house. We'll have to see it through, I think."

I had nothing more to say, and shortly afterwards we pulled up at No. 4020 Madison Avenue. Bolder and the hackman carried the trunk in, and Indiman directed that it should be placed in the library, the front room on the first landing. The cabman was paid and dismissed, and we were left alone.

"Now for it," said Indiman, gayly. "I have always preferred mutton to lamb."

The trunk was of the cheap variety, covered with brown paper that vaguely simulated leather. It was perfectly new, and this was probably its first trip on the road. The lock was of simple construction. It should be easy to find a key to fit it, and one of mine, with a little filing, did the trick. The bolt shot back, and Indiman unhesitatingly threw up the lid.

There was no tray in the trunk, and the interior space was filled with some bulky article that had been carefully shrouded by manifold layers of cloth wrappings. I know that the same thought was in both our minds, but neither of us spoke. A keen-bladed ink-eraser lay on the desk before me, and I handed it to Indiman. He made a swift cut in the wrappings and drew the severed edges apart--a naked human foot protruded. To this hour I have only to shut my eyes to immediately recall that horrid vision. I remember particularly the purplish hue of the swollen veins, the unmistakable rigidity of the joints and muscles.

Indiman shut down the lid and turned the key in the lock. We looked, white-faced, one at the other, then at the maid-servant who stood not ten feet away. Had she been any nearer?

"What is it, Mary?" said Indiman, sharply.

The girl, confused and stammering, explained that she had come in to sweep; she had no idea that Mr. Indiman was in the library. No, the door was not locked, and she had just that moment walked in. Indiman cut short her apologies, and, with a tolerable assumption of indifference, dismissed her to her duties elsewhere.

"Unfortunate," he remarked, with a frown.

"I doubt if she could have seen anything," I answered, reassuringly. "I should have heard her if she had come any nearer, and the trunk was only open for a second or two."

"Quite long enough for anything to happen," said Indiman. "I say, Thorp, but this is a go," he went on, cockily enough. Then suddenly the steadiness went out of his voice, like a match-light in a high wind, and he finished with a little, choking gasp, "Just the very--rummest go."

I don't remember that we had a drink on the strength of it, but it's more than probable. Then we sat down to consider.

The natural, the obvious, and the only proper course of action was to go at once to Police Headquarters and make a frank statement of the case with its attendant circumstances. True, we were undistinguished citizens, with neither pull nor influence, but surely respectability must count for something, even as against charges of admitted theft and suspected murder. If we owned up now we should be subjected, doubtless, to more or less annoyance growing out of the affair, but the position would be infinitely less difficult than if we waited for events to force it upon us. "Murder will out," I quoted.

"So they say," answered Indiman, and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.

And yet in the end we abandoned this eminently sane conclusion, deciding that we would keep our own counsel and let the matter work itself out. For such a crime as murder does not end with the actual deed; the rupturing of the thousand and one ties that bind even the most insignificant of lives to the general body of human existence cannot be accomplished without some disturbance; a circle has myriad points, and at any one of them the interrupted current may again begin to flow. Perchance the message falls upon indifferent ears or is too feeble and incoherent in itself to compel attention. In this event the signals must necessarily grow weaker and more infrequent until they finally cease altogether--the crime is now an accomplished fact, the chapter is finally closed. Or, again, the call may come as plangent and insistent as the stroke of a fire-alarm; the whole community hears and instantly understands; the murder is out.

Now either of us could presume to measure the precise quality of odic force inherent in the grisly mystery that lay under our hand; the affair might range from the dignity of a cause celebre to the commonplace of a purely commercial transaction--the economical transportation of a medical college "subject." It was this very uncertainty that fascinated our imaginations and so allowed the sober judgment to be deposed. Our ostensible argument was that the police would be sure to make a mess of the affair. If that idiot, Detective Brownson, took hold of it, the goddess Justice might throw up her hands as well as close her eyes. And inwardly we desired to cherish our secret out of the same sense of fearful joy with which one listens to a ghost story--we had tasted the coal-black wine pressed from forbidden grapes, and we craved a yet deeper draught. Finally, a connoisseur does not willingly relinquish a good find, whatever the circumstances; there are bibliomaniacs who will not hesitate to steal what they may not otherwise procure. I myself know a charming woman who collects Japanese sword-guards AT ANY COST (I have her husband's authority for this statement).

But, seriously again, the grip of the mystery was upon us; the inclination had become irresistible to see the thing out, or at least to let it run a little further, just as a child amuses itself with fire--the desire to see what will happen. Later on it might be necessary to pull up sharply, but the contingency would doubtless provide for itself. The ultimate fact remained that here was a genuine adventure, and as connoisseurs of romance we were bound to exploit it to the utmost limit of our ability. So be it, then.

"The finding of that organ-grinder is our first and obvious procedure," said Indiman, slowly. "And the clew to his identity lies, as you have explained, in his instrument."

"The organ itself is a criminal; it murders 'Celeste Aida.'"

"I believe that most of these instruments are rented from one company," continued Indiman. "We can find out definitely at the city License Bureau, and we might as well make that the starting-point of our investigations. We have plenty of time before luncheon; it is barely twelve o'clock."

"But shouldn't we begin with--with the thing itself," I objected, and glanced nervously at the big trunk standing in the middle of the floor. The identity of the victim--it may be possible to establish it--a most important point, surely."

"I'll have to pass up that part of it--at least for the present," said Indiman, frankly. "But we must get the box out of sight somewhere. The weather"--and here he gave a little involuntary shudder--"is getting warmer. We'd better get it down into the cellar. I'll see if the way is clear."

The servants were all busy in the upper part of the house, and we succeeded in getting the trunk down into the cellar unobserved, stowing it away temporarily in an empty coal-bin. On our way up-stairs we encountered the maid, Mary, and something in the hasty way in which she stood back to let us pass stirred again my vague suspicions. But there was nothing to say or do; we must trust to luck.

Then there was no difficulty in finding the office of the company that leases hand-organs to itinerant musicians, and the manager, an Americanized Italian, was most courteous in answering our inquiries. It appeared that this particular aria of "Celeste Aida" was only included in the repertoire of some half-dozen of the older instruments. It chanced that they were all in stock at the present time, and it would be no trouble at all to let us hear them play. "Our incomparable maestro--he is no longer remembered," said the manager, mournfully. "The public--now it is that they demand what you calla hot stuff--'Loosianner Loo' and the 'Lobster Intermezzo,' Per Bacco! if they would but open their ears--la--la--there it goes--

'"Ce-le-ste A-i-da, For-ma di-vi-na'--

Ah, gentlemen, THAT is musica."

An amiable person, but we were wasting both his and our time. Each one of the six organs reproduced the original notation of the aria, and the imperfect instrument must therefore be in private hands. So we returned thanks to Mr. Gualdo Sarto for his courtesy, and went away somewhat disheartened. Haystacks are large places and needles small objects.

Two days went by--days spent in aimless wandering about the streets waiting for a distant hand-organ to give tongue. Then a hot chase, only to draw another blank.

On the third day I came home alone about five o'clock. The weather was really hot again, and I was tired out with tramping. Yet a little chill ran down my spine as I happened to glance across the street and caught sight of a man's face in an areaway. He had been watching me; of that I was certain.

I went up to the library and sat there waiting for Indiman. The man in the areaway waited also.

At half after six Indiman appeared. He, too, had been unsuccessful; I could see it in his face before he spoke. I told him of the suspicious loiterer across the street. Together we kept close watch on the areaway, and after a while the fellow came out and strolled off with what was intended to pass as jaunty indifference. But we were not deceived.

"That fool of a girl has talked," said Indiman. "Looks like it."

"See here, Thorp, that thing in the cellar--we'll have to do something at once."

I nodded.

"The flooring in the coal-bin is brick; it won't be difficult to take up a section large enough for--"

I nodded again.

I shan't forget what we did that night--the stealing down into the echoing cellar--the flickering of the candle-light on the white-washed walls--the sound of the spade clinking against a casual stone.

How we worked! Like slaves under the lash--an actual lash of terror. For we were afraid, frankly and honestly afraid, of what we had done and of what we were doing. I know that the sweat fairly poured off me. My word! but it WAS hot, and there was a fearful significance in the thought that urged us on to even greater exertions.

It had to be done, and at last it was, the bricks neatly replaced and the surplus earth packed away in gunny-sacks to be removed at the first favorable opportunity. Then in the gray dawn we drew ourselves wearily up-stairs, and, separating without a word, went to our rooms. Was it pure, malignant chance that the maid, Mary, passed me on her way down-stairs and glanced, with a curious, shrinking repugnance, at my earth-stained and dusty clothes? I did not care; I was dog-tired and I wanted but one thing--bed. I reached my couch, fell sprawling upon it, and slept for seven hours straight.

It was a relief to awake from the phantasmagoria of horrors that crowded my dreams. It was nearly two o'clock, and I had written to my friend Ellison asking him to luncheon at that hour. The meal was rather a silent one for two of us, but Ellison talked incessantly. He was in high spirits, having just been appointed to a university professorship in physiology--his specialty. "I've been busy getting my lecture material together," he explained, and "I had a beastly piece of bad luck the other day. My own fault, I suppose, but it illustrates the point that our American baggage system is still far from perfection. Now the European idea--"

"Shall we go into the library for coffee," said Indiman, a little abruptly, and I could see that Ellison's chatter was beginning to get on his nerves; my own were vibrating like harp-strings. I walked over to one of the library windows and looked out, just in time to catch sight of a man backing quickly into the shadow of the areaway opposite.

From down the street came the sound of a childish voice singing. Great Heavens! It was Verdi's aria "Celeste Aida," with F natural in the third bar instead of F sharp.

"I am going out for a few minutes," I said, carelessly. "Just around the corner to get a special-delivery stamp. Of course you'll wait, Ellison," and I gave Indiman a quick glance. He understood.

Perhaps I was shadowed by the watchers in the areaway. I neither knew nor cared. My one idea was to catch up with the child, and this time luck was with me.

The little girl acknowledged shyly that she had learned the tune from a hand-organ. "It belongs to my uncle Bartolomeo," she explained, proudly. "It is a good organ, signore. There are little figures of men and women under the glass front, and when the musica plays they dance--so."

Uncle Bartolomeo was fortunately at home, and I persuaded him to accompany me back to 4020 Madison Avenue. He spoke English perfectly, and looked both honest and shrewd. Well, we would find some way of getting the truth out of him.

A police-officer opened the door for me. So the blow had fallen already. I went on up to the library, taking Bartolomeo with me. At the door I waited a moment.

Brownson sat at the long table, the picture of the zealous and efficient guardian of public safety. The maid-servant, Mary, had just been interrogated--of course, it was she who had betrayed us, and Brownson was evidently her young man. What infernal luck!

"Now, Mr Indiman--" said Brownson, sternly, "but be careful what you say; it may be used against you."

Indiman told the whole story without reserve, and Brownson listened with cold incredulity. But Ellison seemed interested.

"A baggage-check handed in at the door," commented the detective, with judicial impassivity. "Where is this organ-grinder?"

"Here," I answered, and entered with Uncle Bartolomeo.

But the examination, severe as it was, revealed only the bare fact that Bartolomeo had found the brass baggage-check lying on the sidewalk in front of No. 4020 Madison Avenue. He was an honest man, and, moreover, the acticle was of no use to him. He had given it to the servant at the door to be handed over to the gentleman of the house. That was all he knew. By the Holy Virgin, he had spoken the truth!

Brownson rang the call-bell. "Bring in the trunk," he said, curtly, and forthwith two policemen appeared with the fatal box, just as it had been exhumed from its resting-place in the coal-bin. "Hullo!" blurted out Ellison, in vast surprise, and somehow my sinking spirits revived with the word.

"Who is this gentleman?" demanded Brownson, frowning at the interruption.

"Dr. Ellison," I answered.

"Medicine?"

"Yes."

"Hum," said Brownson, importantly. "I will ask him to kindly take charge--"

"I should think so," broke in Ellison, cheerfully, "seeing that it's my own property. I lost baggage-check No. 18329, from Cleveland to New York, the night of my arrival in town, and somewhere in this very neighborhood. The next morning I went to the Grand Central to prove my ownership, but the trunk had been claimed and carried away."

"You are aware, Dr. Ellison," said Brownson, "that this trunk contains--well, we all know what."

"Oh, do we!" retorted Ellison, smartly. "Just stand back there." He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the trunk. An irresistible curiosity drew us forward again. Ellison seized the wrapping and jerked it forcibly apart. I turned my eyes away, and Mary screamed outright.

"Did you never see an anatomical manikin before?" asked Ellison, scornfully. "Made out of papier-mache, you know, and used for demonstrations in physiology before college classes. They used to come from Paris, but they're making them in Cleveland now, and better than the French ones. I tell you I'm mighty glad to get my 'old man' back; he's just out of the shop and cost me a hundred-dollar bill."

Mr. Detective Brownson walked over to the trunk, gazed intently at the manikin, and gingerly poked it once or twice in the ribs. He turned red and swallowed at something in his throat.

"So you wish to make a charge against these gentlemen?" he asked, with almost a note of appeal in his voice.

"Not I," answered Ellison, cheerfully. "It's all between friends, and they can settle the matter with me over a petit souper at Delmonico's. Good-day, officer."

How quickly the echoes of the strenuous life die away. After the storm and stress of those dreadful four days one would suppose that peace at any price were the one thing worth while. And for a month or more we were quite content with the humdrum of ordinary existence. And then just because a game of patience would not make-- _

Read next: Chapter 10. The Upset Apple-Cart

Read previous: Chapter 8. The Tip-top Tip

Table of content of Gates of Chance


GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book