The Midnight Passenger by Richard Henry Savage

R >> Richard Henry Savage >> The Midnight Passenger

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

With all his bridges burned behind him, Fritz Braun easily threaded
the network of railways of the Eastern German frontier.

For years he had studied over the hiding place upon the triangular
frontier of Poland, Germany, and Austria; and now, he only longed
for a freedom from Irma Gluyas' haunting eyes.

"Leah can join me later; but even she must not know of this fool's
fate!"

Safe in his own conceit, Fritz Braun drew happy breaths of relief
when he was safely hidden in the little village of Schebitz, under
the frowning crags of the Silesian Katzen Gebirge.

"Here we can rest in safety till the storm blows over," he said,
as Irma Gluyas followed him into the arched entrance of an old
half-forgotten manor house. "You shall have your books and music;
we can take a run whenever we like, and you shall have nothing to
fear, for my American friends will take care of me."

And then began the double duel of wits, in which, all innocent of
suspicion of danger, the woman whose soul was struggling toward
the light again, hid the darling secret of her heart--the coming
of the man who was to free her from the tyranny of her past sins!
"His love will find me out, even here," she murmured, as she listened
to the wild breezes sweeping down from the pine-clad mountains.
"And I shall live once more--a bond slave no longer!"

It was two weeks after their arrival when Braun felt safe to leave
his dangerous charge with the peasant spies whom he had gathered
as servants.

His money was safe, hidden in the old manor house; and he felt the
skies were clear when he entered the money-changers at Breslau,
where he cautiously sold some of his smaller bills.

On the table in the bank lay a copy of the New York Herald. His
stern face paled as he gazed upon the flaring head-lines. But the
audacious criminal's hand never trembled as he read the four columns
which blazoned the discovery of Clayton's body.

Fast as the devil drives he hastened back to his secret lair. One
friendly thrill warmed his agitated heart as he read Leah Einstein's
simple cipher words, in the cable which warned him of a new danger.

"I must soon be about my business," he gloomily decided. "This
Hungarian witch has some jewels left. It's only a few hours by rail
to the Russian frontier. She might, with her winning appearance,
easily find her way over the frontier of Poland. If she learned
of the discovery of Clayton's body, she might, in her love craze,
denounce me, even here. That would mean death for me; at the worst
only a short detention for her."

The fear of the old Vienna crimes now hardened the heart of the man
who was once the prosperous Hugo Landor. "SHE MUST DIE!" he cried
as he sentenced her remorselessly. "But how? There must be no
bungling!"

His whole nature was thrilling with the alarm of Leah Einstein's
warning. "She may have to clear out," mused the self-tortured
criminal. "Her only safe refuge is with me, and I could count on
her to help me clear away this wild-hearted Magyar devil."

Fear now kept him from any further unnecessary visit to Breslau.
He pondered a whole day, and then sent an unsigned cablegram,
addressed to the woman he had rebaptized as Rachel Meyer.

It was the simple phrase, "Schebitz-Breslau."

"Leah will know that I am here, and in any storm can join me."
With a sudden access of generosity, he sent the faithful ally of
his darkest day a secretly-purchased draft for two thousand marks.

And then the murderer forgot his danger, ignorant of one lonely
pursuer who followed up the blind trail of the murderer, now watching
Leah Einstein night and day.

It was twenty days later when the poor cobbler Mulholland, whistling
softly, went out and closed the door of his little shop opposite
Mrs. Rachel Meyer's modest apartment. The frightened woman had
only left her rooms at night after the publication of the finding
of Randall Clayton's body.

A horrible, haunting fear now possessed her. She knew the horror of
the deed. Stronger than the terror which bade her avoid the light
of day was the yearning to assure herself of the unruly boy's
safety. "If he is caught, God of Jacob!" she murmured, "I will end
my days in prison."

Even the hammering of the strange Irish cobbler in the noisy hallway
relieved her. She had never looked into that open door but a pair
of gleaming eyes had followed her every movement from under the
disguised policeman's bushy false beard.

"I think that I have the key of the mystery now," gleefully
soliloquized McNerney. "I am tired of playing cobbler Mulholland."

In fact, he needed time for rest and study.

A five-dollar bill had procured him the privilege of copying the
cablegram, when a telegraph boy had stumbled in, two weeks before,
to find Rachel Meyer.

The words "Schebitz-Breslau" had given him no clue; but on this
auspicious day the postman had begged him to aid him in finding
the proper party to receive a valuable registered letter.

The officer's quick eye caught the German stamp, "Value 2000 marks,"
and the words, "Absender, August Meyer." "This is the fellow at
last," muttered McNerney. "The man, August Meyer, who sends this
poor devil of a woman two thousand marks. She is preparing to skip
out. Now, for Mr. Lawyer Witherspoon!"

"The next time that this woman meets the boy, he must be arrested
on one corner by Jim Condon. I will seize upon her! Keeping them
separate and quiet, I may get the story. But I dare not tell the
chief, or I would lose the reward. Witherspoon must trust to me.
I must get that man over there."

CHAPTER XIII.

ON THE YACHT "RAMBLER."

Four days after cobbler Mulholland had sold out his little outfit
to a stranger, James Lennon, whose dingy scrawl, "Shoes Fixed While
You Wait," now stared Mrs. Rachel Meyer in the face, there was a
circle of three earnest conspirators plotting in the interests of
justice in the library of Counsellor Stillwell.

The great house was silent on the golden afternoon, of the famille
Stillwell were busied in their varied occupations. The old lawyer
in his William Street legal cave, the ladies driving or chasing
the bubble pleasure.

Around the library table were gathered a trinity of souls all eager
to avenge the unrequited death of Randall Clayton. The tired-out
executors were now on their way to Detroit, sharing with the
puzzled journals and the baffled police the hope that "something
would finally turn up in the Clayton mystery."

Down in the Western Trading Company's office, the urbane Robert Wade,
now shining out again in full plumage, explained to the occasional
disgruntled stockholder that the Fidelity Company had paid in their
fifty thousand dollars; that many of the largest cheques had been
stopped, and that the Worthington Estate had nobly offered to recoup
the company for the final deficiency from the extra fall dividend
on their own stock, which was to gladden all hearts.

"Poor Hugh Worthington!" sighed Wade. "If he had only lived to see
his cherished plan for freight control in operation. Our stock
has risen fifty-five points on the new deal. Mr. Ferris? Ah! His
retirement was solely due to ill-health. He has resumed his private
consulting practice. But, Clayton! there was an irreparable loss!
Poor boy! Some momentary imprudence must have exposed him. Thugs!
Thugs! Here in New York, in broad day light! It is monstrous!"

And so the ruffled financial waters closed smoothly over the
forgotten grave of the murdered cashier. It was dimly supposed
that the "sleuth hounds" of the law were still peering about with
their fabled "argus eyes."

But the two men gazing upon Alice Worthington's serene and
steadfast face on this August afternoon wondered at the fervor of
her high-souled thirst for vengeance.

The broad, Greek forehead, the clearly-shining blue eyes, the firm,
resolute lips, her voice throbbing with earnestness, all spoke of
a Venus armed with Minerva's panoply.

William Atwater's dark, impassioned face was lit with a fiery
enthusiasm, as he said, "Miss Alice, we have met here to open the
first of the seven seals.

"Witherspoon and I have recognized that you have not unfolded
to Stillwell, or even the executors, all the last, sacred wishes
of your father. We feel that you have knowledge, suspicions, and
inferences, all your own. Now, to us, the last, the nearest friends
of Clayton, your carte blanche to follow this up means everything.
But we must have your directing mind with us; we need absolute secrecy,
the use of money, and your aid. We do not ask you to tell us all,
now. We only do ask that you will, at the right time, aid us with
everything you can impart. We will give you the most important
disclosures. I will give you my whole time.

"And if you sustain Witherspoon here, I will hound down the
murderer, and, perhaps, fix a further responsibility on the only
man to whose interest it was to blot out Randall Clayton's blameless
life."

There was a joint exclamation as the three gazed inquiringly at
each other.

"Arthur Ferris!"

"Yes," solemnly said the dark-eyed doctor. "He was luring Clayton
to his grave! He may have tried other plans, and, perhaps foiled
by Clayton's suspicions or by mere accident, have used the real
murderer here as his tool."

Alice Worthington's golden hair gleamed out, as her head fell upon
her hands. Her face was ashen-pale, as she faltered out, "Have you
found any papers?"

The girl bride's heart beat wildly. There was the imperilled honor
of her father, guilty in intent in her mind now, as she whispered,
"Is any one implicated?"

"Listen!" said the young physician, rising and pacing the room.
"We have a trap set for a humble tool of the real murderer, whom
we believe to be hiding in Europe. We must act somewhat outside of
the law. Witherspoon must go to the Secretary of State at Washington
and get an alias extradition, so that we can later hold the real
criminal. We must use force, fear, even innocent fraud. We need your
money aid, your authority, and your secrecy." Miss Worthington's
face lit up grandly.

"There's my hand," firmly said Alice Worthington, springing up. "I
have made arrangements with the executors for money. Spare nothing!
Let us all act together. You shall be my brothers if you bring
the cruel wretch to bay!" The young doctor bent over the girl's
trembling hand and kissed it in reverence. Turning to Witherspoon,
he simply said, "Call in McNerney."

A flickering rosy red dyed the young heiress' cheeks as she gazed
upon Atwater's nervous, elegant figure pacing to and fro in the
dusky library. "Miss Alice," said the physician, "When I dismiss
Witherspoon and the officer, it will be only to send them to take
two persons into custody. From them we shall be able to find our
secrets which will lead us to the murderer.

"And to-morrow I will come alone, here, and tell you that Randall
Clayton feared treachery; that he made a will, and left his little
savings to one whom you will respect and honor.

"Of all this, not a single word, even to Witherspoon, until the two
suspected ones are secretly arrested. Not a human being must know
of the arrest, as we will use either one of the arrested to guide
me to the hiding place of the murderer.

"I hope by to-morow night that you will know all but the fact of
the chief criminal's arrest! To effect his arrest, I myself must
risk life and even my reputation. Witherspoon and I have toiled
in secret since the disappearance of Clayton.

"With you, we will win; without you, the murderer may escape. One
hint of danger, and he would take flight and be lost in Europe's
uncounted millions, perhaps in Asia."

Alice Worthington's beaming eyes told of her new pledge of secrecy,
as she stood, a beautiful Peri, finger on lip, while Witherspoon
brought the stalwart McNerney into the library.

The young officer, in plain, dark clothes, with severely shaven
lip, was the ideal of a resolute young Irish priest, saving his
Roman collar.

But his steady eye kindled as Witherspoon tersely recounted to the
astonished heiress the discovery of the pocketbook, the picture
label, the secret visits to the deserted mansion, No. 192 Layte
Street, and the results of all his private researches.

The policeman sprang to his feet as the lawyer logically recounted
his casual visits to the Newport Art Gallery, on finding a similar
Danube picture in the window.

"In my opinion," sharply concluded Jack, "this Adolph Lilienthal
knows something. His glib lie that there was no duplicate of the
artist proof in America fell flat when I reminded him that I had
recently seen one in New York. After looking over his memorandums,
he admitted that he had sold one to Mr. Randall Clayton some weeks
before his unfortunate death.

"Now," the lawyer cried, with positive deduction, "that picture
had been addressed to Fraulein Irma Gluyas, No. 192 Layte Street,
Brooklyn. I have the very label. Her name was found pencilled on
the card in poor Randall's pocketbook. Who can find the missing
thread to follow on this darkened path?"

"I can," stoutly said McNerney. "Somebody who was anxious to get
Clayton out of the way used some pretty face as a lure! She was
thrown across his path, God knows how! The vilest crimes here are
concocted often in gilded luxury. He was undoubtedly killed in
Brooklyn. This woman helped to get him there! Two people must be
let alone, absolutely undisturbed. One is Lilienthal, and the other,
Ferris! And you must all use a thousand precautions when we act.
I'll have half the truth by to-morrow night. My chum, Jim Condon,
is hammering shoes as cobbler James Lennon opposite the room where
one of the suspects lives. And if Lilienthal or Ferris should miss
either of the parties who will be arrested, they may warn the real
criminal." The plainly-spoken words carried conviction to each
listener.

The three friends were breathlessly hanging on the officer's frank
words as he now described the departure of the fated Clayton from
the street corner in the carriage with a woman, and decoyed there
by the boy.

"Why did you hide all this?" was Alice Worthington's astounded
query.

"Because the time was not ripe; because it meant the escape of
the real criminal; and because I want the honor of the arrests, and
the double reward. It means a life of ease and promotion, as well
as the glory of bringing the brute who killed Clayton to bay! Now,
Jim Condon is on watch. The woman is packing to slip away to Europe;
she must meet the boy again! I will shadow him; Condon will watch
the woman. Within three days they will meet, probably to-night, as
the German steamers sail in two days. We will soon have them both!

"I've arranged for their safe handling."

"And what do you propose to do?" anxiously cried the heiress.

"Why," simply said McNerney, "the doctor and I will take the woman,
go over to Europe, and catch 'Mr. August Meyer,' who forgot that
the name of the sender of a valuable package is put on the envelope
by the German government. That has betrayed him."

"And Mr. Witherspoon?" the excited woman said. "Stays here and
secretly holds the boy hidden, even against the law, until we have
the other. Then we can trap Ferris or Lilienthal, or both."

"Is this plan your joint work?" asked Alice. The three men bowed.

"And it's the only one, Miss," stoutly said the policeman. "One
word dropped to any one, and we lose the game forever! I go out
of my duty. I risk my place! But I've got three-months' leave of
absence. Condon has two."

"I will guarantee your future," said the heiress to McNerney. "Go
ahead, and God speed you. These gentlemen will furnish all the
money you need."

"Then it's a go!" bluntly answered the officer. "I feel it in my
bones we'll get them to-night."

After a whispered colloquy with the two friends, McNerney offered
his hand to the agitated woman. "I'll risk my life for you, Miss,"
he said. "There's a desperate man behind this deed. And it was no
ordinary woman who drew him into danger. Don't blame poor Clayton. He
may have met her as a mere fashion-plat on the Avenue. Who knows?"

An hour after the officer had departed, Alice Worthington saw
the two friends disappear, walking away unconcernedly, arm in arm.
She turned away from the drawing-room window, in a stormy burst of
sorrow.

"My father!" she gasped. And then, seeking the refuge of her own
room, she hid her tell-tale face. "Even if it leads up to the guilty
past, I can defend his memory. He was guiltless of this crime; and
Randall Clayton's name shall be cleared of all stain!"

Over her virgin heart came the memory of the cold bargain which
had linked her name to the crafty Ferris.

"Never, never, so help me, God! shall he lay his hand again in
mine!"

For the first time in her life she felt the delicious power of
wealth. Only the silver-haired Lemuel Boardman knew of the armed
neutrality now secretly arranged, which was to buy a legal separation
after six months from her nominal husband in that obscure Western
State.

"Thank God!" she cried. "The sale of his honor, his manhood, for
one hundred thousand dollars will seal his lips. He will keep his
bargain; but, if he should be found guilty?"

All that night the heiress tossed upon uneasy pillows, waiting for
the tidings which might in time parade her name as the innocent
wife of a desperate felon.

The motley crowd pouring along the Bowery at ten o'clock swept past
the Cooper Union on either side in search of the garish delights of
the oblong oasis of pleasure. Down Fourth Avenue from the Square,
down along Third Avenue, they swarmed.

Eager, hard-faced men; painted, hopeless-eyed women, the vacuous
visitor from "Wayback," drunken soldiers, stray sailors, lost
marines, all were kaleidoscopically mingled.

The strident voices of street peddlers mingled with the hoarse
seductions of pullers-in.

Hebraic venders beamed alluringly from their open doors, gin
palaces, shooting galleries, mock auctions, second-hand stores
and brilliantly-lit "dives" awaited the unwary. "Coffee parlors,"
museums, cheap theaters, and music halls, as well as the "side
rooms," were thronged with those pitiless-eyed Devil's children,
the women of the night side of New York!

Roar of elevated train, clang of street cars, hurrying dash of the
ambulance, wild onward career of the fire engine, punctuated this
human maelstrom sweeping toward its duplex outlets of the morgue
or Sing Sing's gloomy prison cells.

No one noted Witherspoon and Doctor Atwater seated in two different
carriages drawn up under the shades of lonely buildings on the side
street near the Dry Dock Bank.

The window-curtains were down in each of these waiting vehicles,
and the drivers nodded upon their boxes.

In all the guilty bosoms on the bedlam-like street no hearts beat
as wildly as those in the breasts of McNerney and Condon.

"It's the one chance of our lives, Jim," said McNerney, as he
crouched in a dark doorway before posting his comrade. Both were
now in uniform, ready for a dash, and McNerney's upper lip wore a
movable prototype of his cherished mustache. "The boy comes down
Fourteenth Street always and by Fourth Avenue," whispered Dennis.

"You watch the corner from this side. I'll nab the woman from the
other. Remember, not till they have met and finished their talk.
Then you can take the boy along with Atwater. I'll rush the woman
away with Mr. Witherspoon."

It was twenty minutes past ten when McNerney saw the dark-clad
form of Leah Einstein swiftly gliding along in the shade from Third
Avenue. Onward she sped, never turning her veiled face to the right
or left, until she slackened her pace under the gloomy cornices of
the Dry Dock Bank.

The policeman sprang into a dark hallway as she passed, holding
his breath lest the shy bird should take alarm.

In a few moments Emil Einstein sauntered across the Bowery and
circling around the deserted bank corner, then settled down into
a slow, searching pace, threading the lonely south side of the
darkened cross street.

From his hidden post, McNerney could see the woman clinging to the
boy's arm and pleading, while she murmured her prayers in a low
tone.

"Not yet, not yet," mused McNerney. "He must get her whole message.
She must have time to get his last report."

At last, as the tiger springs upon its prey, McNerney leaped out
of his hiding place, for the sobbing woman had turned alone toward
the East River.

With a frightened half scream, the timorous woman staggered back
speechless as the uniform of the tall officer flashed before her
eyes.

In a moment she was in the carriage, and both her wrists grasped
by Witherspoon's sinewy hands.

But, before the carriage started, McNerney, tearing away the rear
curtain, saw Policeman Condon hustling the struggling Emil into
the other carriage. When it rapidly dashed away, McNerney grimly
said, "All right! Go ahead!"

The officer's quick ear caught the woman's despairing murmur, "Emil!
My boy, my poor son! They will kill him!"

"Not if you are sensible, Mrs. Leah Einstein," growled the policeman.
"But your boy's life depends now only on you."

"Where are you taking me to?" pleaded the woman, her storm of tears
choking her voice. "That you will soon find out," menacingly said
McNerney. "Where you ought to have been long ago!"

In the long ride across the great city, McNerney grew complacent
over his bold stroke in borrowing an unused store-room from the
armorer of the Twenty-ninth Regiment.

It was after eleven o'clock when the three entered the gloomy
basement under the granite buttresses of the armory.

In the lonely arched room only a table and a few chairs relieved
the prison-like emptiness. A man with papers spread out before him
scarcely raised his head as the three entered.

While McNerney drew the terrified woman into a corner, Witherspoon
anxiously paced the floor. Fifteen minutes after their arrival, a
messenger lad dashed into the room with a telegram.

"All right, now, McNerney!" said the lawyer, as he read the dispatch
telling him: "Party on board the 'Rambler.' Set sail at once. Will
telegraph from Tompkinsville."

And then, with a smile of triumph, Dennis McNerney locked the door.
He placed the half-fainting woman in a chair before the notary and
began his inquisition.

The look of utter despair in Leah Einstein's face softened under
the velvety, wooing voice of the man who had boldly abducted her.
In the whispered conference in the corner, he had skilfully played
upon that inexhaustible mother's love which is the one undiminished
treasure of a worn-out world.

The poor wretch at bay little dreamed that cobbler Mulholland was
standing before her, and her tortured heart had forgotten all the
dangers of the cablegram and the tell-tale registered letter. "If
you answer all my questions," kindly said McNerney, "and make a
clean breast of it, you may save your boy. Do you want to do that
young man's life? He stands next to the electric chair now, for
the murder of Mr. Randall Clayton!"

The heart-stricken mother was on her knees in a moment.

"Kill me! Do anything you wish. But spare him! He is innocent! He
knows nothing!"

"Let us see what you know, then!" grimly answered McNerney. "The
notary will swear you, and, if you tell us the whole truth, we will
help your boy. If you lie to us, God will punish you both, and we
will show no mercy."

Witherspoon opened his eyes in wonder as McNerney rapidly drew out
the whole story of Clayton's departure from the corner of University
Place in the carriage.

"You were the woman in the carriage on the day that Clayton left!
I SAW YOU MYSELF!" thundered McNerney. "Your own boy brought
Clayton the message. Now, where did you take him?"

Witherspoon held his breath as Leah Einstein, between her sobs,
told of the fatal visit to No. 192 Layte Street.

It was half an hour when the sobbing woman had finished her recital.
"By the God of Jacob! I never saw him after he went into the back
room. Fritz was with him there, Fritz alone!"

The three men were as unmoved as sphinxes while McNerney led her
along. "I only thought Fritz wanted him to meet the pretty woman,
the one they called Irma, and then, while he was there, take his
things from him. He had only a leather valise; no diamonds. I saw
no money, and I was with the sick woman. Mr. Clayton loved her,
and used to come and see her."

"Where does this Fritz live?" sternly said the policeman. "Everybody
knows Fritz Braun, the druggist of Magdal's Pharmacy. Ask Mr.
Lilienthal of the Newport Art Gallery. He is his friend."

With assumed indifference, McNerney mixed a glass of brandy and
water for the woman, and walked the floor in deep thought. "Where
is he now?" at last asked McNerney. "This Fritz Braun!"

There was a silence while the quick-witted Jewess caught at the
protection of the far-off hiding place of her quandam lover. "He
went away; I do not know where; and took the woman with him, this
Hungarian woman, this Irma Gluyas! Lilienthal knows; you can make
him tell."

"Look here!" sharply cried the officer, in a sudden rage. "You are
lying to me! Your rooms are being searched even now! Your boy has
been taken away, and he will go straight to the electric chair.
He gave that poor man over into your hands. You took him to the
murderer's den! BOTH OF YOU WILL DIE! You were yourself getting
ready to run away to Europe! Your baggage is all packed! We will
force the truth out of your boy; you shall never see him. You can't
help him lie now! I was the cobbler opposite your door, and I've
watched you for a month!"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19