The Tracer of Lost Persons

by Robert W. Chambers

  CHAPTER VII

  The news of Gatewood's fate filled Kerns with a pleasure bordering uponmelancholy. It was his work; he had done it; it was good for Gatewoodtoo--time for him to stop his irresponsible cruise through life, lowersail, heave to, set his signals, and turn over matters to this charmingpilot.

  And now they would come into port together and anchor somewhere east ofFifth Avenue--which, Kerns reflected, was far more proper a place forGatewood than somewhere east of Suez, where young men so often sail.

  And yet, and yet there was something melancholy in the pleasure heexperienced. Gatewood was practically lost to him. He knew what might beexpected from engaged men and newly married men. Gatewood's club lifewas ended--for a while; and there was no other man with whom he cared toembark for those brightly lighted harbors twinkling east of Suez acrossthe metropolitan wastes.

  "It's very generous of me to get him married," he said frequently tohimself, rather sadly. "I did it pretty well, too. It only shows thatwomen have no particular monopoly in the realms of diplomacy andfinesse; in fact, if a man really chooses to put his mind to suchmatters, he can make it no trumps and win out behind a bum ace and aguarded knave."

  He was pleased with himself. He followed Gatewood about explaining howgood he had been to him. An enthusiasm for marrying off his friendsbegan to germinate within him; he tried it on Darrell, on Barnes, onYates, but was turned down and severely stung.

  Then one day Harren of the Philippine Scouts turned up at the club, andthey held a determined reunion until daylight, and they told each otherall about it all and what upper-cuts life had handed out to them sincethe troopship sailed.

  And after the rosy glow had deepened to a more gorgeous hue in the room,and the electric lights had turned into silver pinwheels; and after theyhad told each other the story of their lives, and the last siphon fizzedimpotently when urged beyond its capacity, Kerns arose and extended hishand, and Harren took it. And they executed a song resembling "Auld LangSyne."

  "Ole man," said Kerns reproachfully, "there's one thing you have beendeuced careful _not_ to mention, and that is about what happened to youthree years ago--"

  "Steady!" said Harren; "there is nothing to tell, Tommy."

  "Nothing?"

  "Nothing. I never saw her again. I never shall."

  Kerns looked long and unsteadily upon his friend; then very gravelyfumbled in his pocket and drew forth the business card of Westrel Keen,Tracer of Lost Persons.

  "That," he said, "will be about all." And he bestowed the card uponHarren with magnificent condescension.

  And about five o'clock the following afternoon Harren found the cardamong various effects of his, scattered over his dresser.

  It took him several days to make up his mind to pay any attention to thecard or the suggestion it contained. He scarcely considered it seriouslyeven when, passing along Fifth Avenue one sunny afternoon, he chanced toglance up and see the sign

  KEEN & CO. TRACERS OF LOST PERSONS

  staring him in the face.

  He continued his stroll, but that evening, upon mere impulse, he satdown and wrote a letter to Mr. Keen.

  The next morning's mail brought a reply and an appointment for aninterview on Wednesday week. Harren tossed the letter aside, satisfiedto let the matter go, because his leave expired on Tuesday, and theappointment was impossible.

  On Sunday, however, the melancholy of the deserted club affected hisspirits. A curious desire to see this Tracer of Lost Persons seized himwith a persistence unaccountable. He slept poorly, haunted with visions.

  On Monday he went to see Mr. Keen. It could do no harm; it was too lateto do either harm or good, for his leave expired the next day at noon.

  The business of Keen & Co., Tracers of Lost Persons, had grown toenormous proportions; appointments for a personal interview with Mr.Keen were now made a week in advance, so when young Harren sent in hiscard, the gayly liveried negro servant came back presently, threadinghis way through the waiting throng with pomp and circumstance, andreturned the card to Harren with the date of appointment rewritten inink across the top. The day named was Wednesday. On Tuesday Harren'sleave expired.

  "That won't do," said the young man brusquely; "I must see Mr. Keento-day. I wrote last week for an appointment."

  The liveried darky was polite but obdurate.

  "Dis here am de 'pintment, suh," he explained persuasively.

  "But I want to see Mr. Keen at once," insisted Harren.

  "Hit ain't no use, suh," said the darky respectfully; "dey's mi'ions an'mi'ions ob gemmen jess a-settin' roun' an' waitin' foh Mistuh Keen. Indis here perfeshion, suh, de fustest gemman dat has a 'pintment is defustest gemman dat kin see Mistuh Keen. You is a military gemmanyohse'f, Cap'm Harren, an' you is aware dat precedence am de rigger."

  The bronzed young man smiled, glanced at the date of appointment writtenon his card, which also bore his own name followed by the lettersU.S.A., then his amused gray eyes darkened and he glanced leisurelyaround the room, where a dozen or more assorted people sat waiting theirturns to interview Mr. Keen: all sorts and conditions of people--smartlygowned women, an anxious-browed business man or two, a fat German truckdriver, his greasy cap on his knees, a surly policeman, and an oldIrishwoman, wearing a shawl and an ancient straw bonnet. Harren's eyesreverted to the darky.

  "You will explain to Mr. Keen," he said, "that I am an army officer onleave, and that I am obliged to start for Manila to-morrow. This is myexcuse for asking an immediate interview; and if it's not a good enoughexcuse I must cancel this appointment, that is all."

  The darky stood, irresolute, inclined to argue, but something in thesteel-gray eyes of the man set him in involuntary motion, and he wentaway once more with the young man's message. Harren turned and walkedback to his seat. The old woman with the faded shawl was explainingvolubly to a handsomely gowned woman beside her that she was looking forher boy, Danny; that her name was Mrs. Regan, and that she washed forthe aristocracy of Hunter's Point at a liberal price per dozen, using nodeleterious substances in the suds as Heaven was her witness.

  The German truck driver, moved by this confidence, was stirred to beginan endless account of his domestic misfortunes, and old Mrs. Regan,becoming impatient, had already begun to interrupt with an account ofRegan's recent hoisting on the wings of a premature petard, when thedark servant reappeared.

  "Mistuh Keen will receive you, suh," he whispered, leading the way intoa large room where dozens of attractive young girls sat very busilyengaged at typewriting machines. Door after door they passed, allnumbered on the ground-glass panes, then swung to the right, where thedarky bowed him into a big, handsomely furnished room flooded with themorning sun. A tall, gray man, faultlessly dressed in a gray frock suitand wearing white spats, turned from the breezy, open window to inspecthim; the lean, well groomed, rather lank type of gentleman suggesting aretired colonel of cavalry; unmistakably well bred from the ends of hisdrooping gray mustache to the last button on his immaculate spats.

  "Captain Harren?" he said pleasantly.

  "Mr. Keen?"

  They bowed. Young Harren drew from his pocket a card. It was thebusiness card of Keen & Co., and, glancing up at Mr. Keen, he read italoud, carefully:

  KEEN & CO.

  TRACERS OF LOST PERSONS

  Keen & Co. are prepared to locate the whereabouts of anybody on earth. No charges will be made unless the person searched for is found.

  _Blanks on Application._

  WESTREL KEEN, Manager.

  Harren raised his clear, gray eyes. "I assume this statement to becorrect, Mr. Keen?"

  "You may safely assume so," said Mr. Keen, smiling.

  "Does this statement include _all_ that you are prepared to undertake?"

  The Tracer of Lost Persons inspected him coolly. "What more is there,Captain Harren? I undertake to find lost people. I even undertake tofind the undiscovered ideals of young people who have failed t
o meetthem. What further field would you suggest?" Harren glanced at the cardwhich he held in his gloved hand; then, very slowly, he re-read, "thewhereabouts of anybody _on earth_," accenting the last two wordsdeliberately as he encountered Keen's piercing gaze again.

  "Well?" asked Mr. Keen laughingly, "is not that sufficient? Our clientscould scarcely expect us to invade heaven in our search for thevanished."

  "There are other regions," said Harren.

  "_Ex_actly. Sit down, sir. There is a row of bookcases for youramusement. Please help yourself while I clear decks for action."

  Harren stood fingering the card, his gray eyes lost in retrospection;then he sauntered over to the bookcases, scanning the titles. TheSearcher for Lost Persons studied him for a moment or two, turned, andbegan to pace the room. After a moment or two he touched a bell. Asweet-faced young girl entered; she was gowned in black and wore a whitecollar, and cuffs turned back over her hands.

  "Take this memorandum," he said. The girl picked up a pencil and pad,and Mr. Keen, still pacing the room, dictated in a quiet voice as hewalked to and fro:

  "Mrs. Regan's Danny is doing six months in Butte, Montana. Break it toher as mercifully as possible. He is a bad one. We make no charge. Thetruck driver, Becker, can find his wife at her mother's house, Leonia,New Jersey. Tell him to be less pig-headed or she'll go for good someday. Ten dollars. Mrs. M., No. 36001, can find her missing butler inservice at 79 Vine Street, Hartford, Connecticut. She may notify thepolice whenever she wishes. His portrait is No. 170529, Rogues' Gallery.Five hundred dollars. Miss K. (No. 3679) may send her letter, care ofCisneros & Co., Rio, where the person she is seeking has gone into thecoffee business. If she decides that she really does love him, he'llcome back fast enough. Two hundred and fifty dollars. Mr. W. (No. 3620)must go to the morgue for further information. His repentance is toolate; but he can see that there is a decent burial. The charge: onethousand dollars to the Florence Mission. You may add that we possesshis full record."

  The Tracer paused and waited for the stenographer to finish. When shelooked up: "Who else is waiting?" he asked.

  The girl read over the initials and numbers.

  "Tell that policeman that Kid Conroy sails on the _Carania_ to-morrow.Fifty dollars. There is nothing definite in the other cases. Reportprogress and send out a general alarm for the cashier inquired for byNo. 3608. You will find details in vol. xxxix under B."

  "Is that all, Mr. Keen?"

  "Yes. I'm going to be very busy with"--turning slowly towardHarren--"with Captain Harren, of the Philippine Scouts, untilto-morrow--a very complicated case, Miss Borrow, involving cipher codesand photography--"