Complete weird tales of.., p.298
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 298
“Try it, dear friend,” retorted Kerns courteously.
“Do you mean that you are not afraid? Do you mean you give me full liberty to set him on you? And do you realize what that means? No, you don’t; for you haven’t a notion of what that man, Westrel Keen, can accomplish. You haven’t the slightest idea of the machinery which he controls with a delicacy absolutely faultless; with a perfectly terrifying precision. Why, man, the Pinkerton system itself has become merely a detail in the immense complexity of the system of control which the Tracer of Lost Persons exercises over this entire continent. The urban police, the State constabulary of Pennsylvania, the rural systems of surveillance, the Secret Service, all municipal, provincial, State, and national organizations form but a few strands in the universal web he has woven. Custom officials, revenue officers, the militia of the States, the army, the navy, the personnel of every city, State, and national legislative bodies form interdependent threads in the mesh he is master of; and, like a big beneficent spider, he sits in the center of his web, able to tell by the slightest tremor of any thread exactly where to begin investigations!”
Flushed, earnest, a trifle out of breath with his own eloquence, Gatewood waved his hand to indicate a Ciceronian period, adding, as Kerns’s incredulous smile broadened: “Say splash again, and I’ll put you at his mercy!”
“Ker-splash! dear friend,” observed Kerns pleasantly. “If a man doesn’t want to marry, the army, the navy, the Senate, the white wings, and the great White Father at Washington can’t make him.”
“I tell you I want to see you happy!” said Gatewood angrily.
“Then gaze upon me. I’m it!”
“You’re not! You don’t know what happiness is.”
“Don’t I? Well, I don’t miss it, dear friend—”
“But if you’ve never had it, and therefore don’t miss it, it’s time somebody found some real happiness for you. Kerns, I simply can’t bear to see you missing so much happiness—”
“Why grieve?”
“Yes, I will! I do grieve — in spite of your grinning skepticism and your bantering attitude. See here, Tom; I’ve started about a thousand times to say that I knew a girl—”
“Do you want to hear that splash again?”
Gatewood grew madder. He said: “I could easily lay your case before Mr. Keen and have you in love and married and happy whether you like it or not!”
“If I were not going to Boston, my son, I should enjoy your misguided efforts,” returned Kerns blandly.
“Your going to Boston makes no difference. The Tracer of Lost Persons doesn’t care where you go or what you do. If he starts in on your case, Tommy, you can’t escape.”
“You mean he can catch me now? Here? At my own club? Or on the public highway? Or on the classic Boston train?”
“He could. Yes, I firmly believe he could land you before you ever saw the Boston State House. I tell you he can work like lightning, Kerns. I know it; I am so absolutely convinced of it that I — I almost hesitate—”
“Don’t feel delicate about it,” laughed Kerns; “you may call him on the telephone while I go uptown and get my suit case. Perhaps I’ll come back a blushing bridegroom; who knows?”
“If you’ll wait here I’ll call him up now,” said Gatewood grimly.
“Oh, very well. Only I left my suit case in Billy’s room, and it’s full of samples of Georgia marble, and I’ve got to get it to the train.”
“You’ve plenty of time. If you’ll wait until I talk to Mr. Keen I’ll dine with you here. Will you?”
“What? Dine in this abandoned joint with an outcast like me? Dear friend, are you dippy this lovely May evening?”
“I’ll do it if you’ll wait. Will you? And I’ll bet you now that I’ll have you in love and sprinting toward the altar before we meet again at this club. Do you dare bet?”
“The terms of the wager, kind friend?” drawled Kerns, delighted; and he fished out a notebook kept for such transactions.
“Let me see,” reflected Gatewood; “you’ll need a silver service when you’re married. . . . Well, say, forks and spoons and things against an imported trap gun — twelve-gauge, you know.”
“Done. Go and telephone to your friend, Mr. Keen.” And Kerns pushed the electric button with a jeering laugh, and asked the servant for a dinner card.
* * *
CHAPTER XIII
GATEWOOD, IN THE telephone booth, waited impatiently for Mr. Keen; and after a few moments the Tracer of Lost Persons’ agreeable voice sounded in the receiver.
“It’s about Mr. Kerns,” began Gatewood; “I want to see him happy, and the idiot won’t be. Now, Mr. Keen, you know what happiness you and he brought to me! You know what sort of an idle, selfish, aimless, meaningless life you saved me from? I want you to do the same for Mr. Kerns. I want to ask you to take up his case at once. Besides, I’ve a bet on it. Could you attend to it at once?”
“To-night?” asked the Tracer, laughing.
“Why — ah — well, of course, that would be impossible. I suppose—”
“My profession is to overcome the impossible, Mr. Gatewood. Where is Mr. Kerns?”
“Here, in this club, defying me and drinking cocktails. He won’t get married, and I want you to make him do it.”
“Where is he spending the evening?” asked the Tracer, laughing again.
“Why, he’s been stopping at the Danforth Lees’ in Eighty-third Street until the workmen at the club here finish putting new paper on his walls. The Lees are out of town. He left his suit case at their house and he’s going up to get it and catch the 12.10 train for Boston.”
“He goes from the Lenox Club to the residence of Mr. W. Danforth Lee, East Eighty-third Street, to get a suit case,” repeated the Tracer. “Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“What is in the suit case?”
“Samples of that new marble he’s quarrying in Georgia.”
“Is it an old suit case? Has it Mr. Kerns’s initials on it?”
“Hold the wire; I’ll find out.”
And Gatewood left the telephone and walked into the great lounging room, where Kerns sat twirling his stick and smiling to himself.
“All over, dear friend?” inquired Kerns, starting to rise. “I’ve ordered a corking dinner.”
“Wait!” returned Gatewood ominously. “What sort of a suit case is that one you’re going after?”
“What sort? Oh, just an ordinary—”
“Is it old or new?”
“Brand new. Why?”
“Is your name on it?”
“No; why? Would that thicken the plot, dear friend? Or is the Tracer foiled, ha! ha!”
Gatewood turned on his heel, went back to the telephone, and, carefully shutting the door of the booth, took up the receiver.
“It’s a new suit case, Mr. Keen,” he said; “no initials on it — just an ordinary case.”
“Mr. Lee’s residence is 38 East Eighty-third Street, between Madison and Fifth, I believe.”
“Yes,” replied Gatewood.
“And the family are out of town?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a caretaker there?”
“No; Mr. Kerns camped there. When he leaves to-night he will send the key to the Burglar Alarm Company.”
“Very well. Please hold the wire for a while.”
For ten full minutes Gatewood sat gleefully cuddling the receiver against his ear. His faith in Mr. Keen was naturally boundless; he believed that whatever the Tracer attempted could not result in failure. He desired nothing in the world so ardently as to see Kerns safely married. His own happiness may have been the motive power which had set him in action in behalf of his friend — that and a certain indefinable desire to practice a species of heavenly revenge, of grateful retaliation upon the prime mover and collaborateur, if not the sole author, of his own wedded bliss. Kerns had made him happy.
“And I’m hanged if I don’t pay him off and make him happy, too!” muttered Gatewood. “Does he think I’m going to sit still and see him go tearing and gyrating about town with no responsibility, no moral check to his evolutions, no wholesome home duties to limit his acrobatics, no wife to clip his wings? It’s time he had somebody to report to; time he assumed moral burdens and spiritual responsibilities. A man is just as happy when he is certain where he is going to sleep. A man can find just as much enjoyment in life when he feels it his duty to account for his movements. I don’t care whether Kerns is comparatively happy or not — there’s nothing either sacred or holy in that kind of happiness, and I’m not going to endure the sort of life he likes any longer!”
Immersed in moral reflections, inspired by affectionate obligations to violently inflict happiness upon Kerns, the minutes passed very agreeably until the amused voice of the Tracer of Lost Persons sounded again in the receiver.
“Mr. Gatewood?”
“Yes, I am here, Mr. Keen.”
“Do you really think it best for Mr. Kerns to fall in love?”
“I do, certainly!” replied Gatewood with emphasis.
“Because,” continued the Tracer of Lost Persons, “I see little chance for him to do otherwise if I take up this case. Fate itself, in the shape of a young lady, is already on the way here in a railroad train.”
“Good! Good!” exclaimed Gatewood. “Don’t let him escape, Mr. Keen! I beg of you to take up his case! I urge you most seriously to do so. Mr. Kerns is now exactly what I was a year ago — an utterly useless member of the community — a typical bachelor who lives at his clubs, shirking the duties of a decent citizen.”
“Exactly,” said the Tracer. “Do you insist that I take this case? That I attempt to trace and find for Mr. Kerns a sort of happiness he himself has never found?”
“I implore you to do so, Mr. Keen.”
“Exactly. If I do — if I carry it out as it has been arranged — or rather as the case seems to have already arranged itself, for it is rather a simple matter, I fancy — I do not exactly see how Mr. Kerns can avoid experiencing a — ahem — a tender sentiment for the very charming young lady whom I — and chance — have designed for him as a partner through life.”
“Excellent! Splendid!” shouted Gatewood through the telephone. “Can I do anything to aid you in this?”
“Yes,” replied the Tracer, laughing. “If you can keep him amused for an hour or two before he goes after his suit case it might make it easier for me. This young lady is due to arrive in New York at eight o’clock — a client of mine — coming to consult me. Her presence plays an important part in Mr. Kerns’s future. I wish you to detain Mr. Kerns until she is ready to receive him. But of this he must know nothing. Good-by, Mr. Gatewood, and would you be kind enough to present my compliments to Mrs. Gatewood?”
“Indeed I will! We never can forget what you have done for us. Good-by.”
“Good-by, Mr. Gatewood. Try to keep Mr. Kerns amused for two or three hours. Of course, if you can’t do this, there are other methods I may employ — a dozen other plans already partly outlined in my mind; but the present plan, which accident and coincidence make so easy, is likely to work itself out to your entire satisfaction within a few hours. We are already weaving a web around Mr. Kerns; we already have taken exclusive charge of his future movements after he leaves the Lenox Club. I do not believe he can escape us, or his charming destiny. Good night!”
Gatewood, enchanted, hung up the receiver. Song broke softly from his lips as he started in search of Kerns; his step was springy, buoyant — sort of subdued and modest prance.
“Now,” he said to himself, “Tommy must take out his papers. The time is ended when he can issue letters of marque to himself, hoist sail, square away, and go cruising all over this metropolis at his own sweet will.”
* * *
CHAPTER XIV
IN THE MEANWHILE, at the other end of the wire, Mr. Keen, the Tracer of Lost Persons, was preparing to trace for Mr. Kerns, against that gentleman’s will, the true happiness which Mr. Kerns had never been able to find for himself.
He sat in his easy chair within the four walls of his own office, inspecting a line of people who stood before him on the carpet forming a single and attentive rank. In this rank were five men: a policeman, a cab driver, an agent of the telephone company, an agent of the electric company, and a reformed burglar carrying a kit of his trade tools.
The Tracer of Lost Persons gazed at them, meditatively joining the tips of his thin fingers.
“I want the number on 36 East Eighty-third Street changed to No. 38, and the number 38 replaced by No. 36,” he said to the policeman. “I want it done at once. Get a glazier and go up there and have it finished in an hour. Mrs. Kenna, caretaker at No. 36, is in my pay; she will not interfere. There is nobody in No. 38: Mr. Kerns leaves there to-night and the Burglar Alarm Company takes charge to-morrow.”
And, turning to the others: “You,” nodding at the reformed burglar, “know your duty. Mike!” to the cab driver, “don’t miss Mr. Kerns at the Lenox Club. If he calls you before eleven, drive into the park and have an accident. And you,” to the agent of the telephone company, “will sever all telephone connection in Mrs. Stanley’s house; and you,” to the official of the electric company, “will see that the circuit in Mrs. Stanley’s house is cut so that no electric light may be lighted and no electric bell sound.”
The Tracer of Lost Persons stroked his gray mustache thoughtfully. “And that,” he ended, “will do, I think. Good night.”
He rose and stood by the door as the policeman headed the solemn file which marched out to their duty; then he looked at his watch, and, as it was already a few minutes after eight, he called up No. 36 East Eighty-third Street, and in a moment more had Mrs. Stanley on the wire.
“Good evening,” he said pleasantly. “I suppose you have just arrived from Rosylyn. I may be a little late — I may be very late, in fact, so I called you up to say so. And I wished to say another thing; to ask you whether your servants could recollect ever having seen a young man about the place, a rather attractive young man with excellent address and manners, five feet eleven inches, slim but well built, dark hair, dark eyes, and dark mustache, offering samples of Georgia marble for sale.”
“Really, Mr. Keen,” replied a silvery voice, “I have heard them say nothing about such an individual. If you will hold the wire I will ask my maid.” And, after a pause: “No, Mr. Keen, my maid cannot remember any such person. Do you think he was a confederate of that wretched butler of mine?”
“I am scarcely prepared to say that; in fact,” added Mr. Keen, “I haven’t the slightest idea that this young man could have been concerned in anything of that sort. Only, if you should ever by any chance see such a man, detain him if possible until you can communicate with me; detain him by any pretext, by ruse, by force if you can, only detain him until I can get there. Will you do this?”
“Certainly, Mr. Keen, if I can. Please describe him again?”
Mr. Keen did so minutely.
“You say he sells Georgia marble by samples, which he carries in a suit case?”
“He says that he has samples of Georgia marble in his suit case,” replied the Tracer cautiously. “It might be well, if possible, to see what he has in his suit case.”
“I will warn the servants as soon as I return to Rosylyn. When may I expect you this evening, Mr. Keen?”
“It is impossible to say, Mrs. Stanley. If I am not there by midnight I shall try to call next morning.”
So they exchanged civil adieus; the Tracer hung up his receiver and leaned back in his chair, smiling to himself.
“Curious,” he said, “that chance should have sent that pretty woman to me at such a time. . . . Kerns is a fine fellow, every inch of him. It hit him hard when he crossed with her to Southampton six years ago; it hit him harder when she married that Englishman. I don’t wonder he never cared to marry after that brief week of her society; for she is just about the most charming woman I have ever met — red hair and all. . . . And if quick action is what is required, it’s well to break the ice between them at once with a dreadful misunderstanding.”
* * *
CHAPTER XV
THE DINNER THAT Kerns had planned for himself and Gatewood was an ingenious one, cunningly contrived to discontent Gatewood with home fare and lure him by its seductive quality into frequent revisits to the club which was responsible for such delectable wines and viands.
A genial glow already enveloped Gatewood and pleasantly suffused Kerns. From time to time they held some rare vintage aloft, squinting through the crystal-imprisoned crimson with deep content.
“Not that my word is necessarily the last word concerning Burgundy,” said Gatewood modestly; “but I venture to doubt that any club in America can match this bottle, Kerns.”
“Now, Jack,” wheedled Kerns, “isn’t it pleasant to dine here once in a while? Be frank, man! Look about at the other tables — at all the pleasant, familiar faces — the same fine fellows, bless ’em — the same smoky old ceiling, the same bum portraits of dead governors, the same old stag heads on the wall. Now, Jack, isn’t it mighty pleasant, after all? Be a gentleman and admit it!”
“Y-yes,” confessed Gatewood, “it’s all right for me once in a while, because I know that I am presently going back to my own home — a jolly lamplit room and the prettiest girl in Manhattan curled up in an armchair—”
“You’re fortunate,” said Kerns shortly. And for the first time there remained no lurking mockery in his voice; for the first time his retort was tinged with bitterness. But the next instant his eyes glimmered with the same gay malice, and the unbelieving smile twitched at his clean-cut lips, and he raised his hand, touching the short ends of his mustache with that careless, amused cynicism which rather became him.
