Ashton-Kirk, Secret Agent

by John Thomas McIntyre

  CHAPTER XII

  KARKOWSKY GETS SOME ATTENTION

  The next morning, contrary to Fuller's expectations, Ashton-Kirk did notstart out on a fresh trail. The discovery, as developed the nightbefore, was so curious that the young man was quite sure that it wouldimmediately lead to more surprising revelations. So he was greatlyastonished when he reached the old-fashioned house to learn from Stumphthat the secret agent had gone into the country.

  "He took his fishing rods," explained Stumph, "and went to Jordan'sMills. He said he'd be back to-morrow."

  "He's gone down there to think things out," Fuller told himself, otheroccasions of the same sort fresh in his mind. "A pipe, a green bankunder a tree, and a painted float to watch, are fine things to makethoughts run. They just seem to drift along with the current."

  Sure enough, the next afternoon Ashton-Kirk came back; there was a keen,vigorous look about him that told of a freshening such as his aide hadpictured. He heard what Burgess had to say regarding his hunt forKarkowsky as soon as he arrived, for the man was waiting for him.

  "He's gone completely, so far as I can make out," the broad-shoulderedman informed him. "There's not a trace to be found in any direction.I've questioned everybody I could find in the section who was acquaintedwith him, but they knew only his name and thought him a pretty good sortof fellow."

  Ashton-Kirk said little in reply; but his manner showed that he was farfrom satisfied. After dinner he smoked and walked about his study. Thenhe went to his room.

  A half hour later a tall, cadaverous-looking person, in a black coat andwith a silk hat, the nap of which was well worn, came down the stairs.To Stumph he said:

  "I shall be back in a few hours, perhaps. But should any one call, saythat I will see him in the morning."

  "Very well, sir," said Stumph, gravely.

  It was just fading from the late twilight to the early shadows ofevening when the cadaverous man turned the corner and headed towardFourth Street. His shoulders were bent and his gait was shuffling; thethread gloves which he wore were broken in places here and there and theblack coat was a trifle short in the sleeves.

  But he attracted little or no attention, for in that neighborhoodshabby characters were frequent enough. When once he got into his strideit was astonishing to see how he covered the ground, for all theshuffle. At Fourth Street and Corinth Avenue he halted and looked about.

  It was now dark; the street lights were throwing their pale blue raysinto the hidden corners of the dirty highways; upon stoop and cellardoors, throngs of soiled-looking men and women were congregated; hordesof children were all about, and their cries were shrill and incessant.

  "Brekling?" said a man with a peddler's cart. "Oh, yes, his place isthere on the corner."

  A yellow gaslight burned dimly in the harness shop when the man in theworn top hat entered. There was a heavy smell of leather and oil; thefloor was littered with scraps, and the broken parts of many sets ofharness were stacked up in the rear. A small man with round spectaclesand a dirty apron came forward; he had been reading a Polish newspaperunder the dim light.

  "Well, sir," said he, inquiringly, and with a marked accent, "what can Ido for you this evening?"

  "You have rooms to rent, I believe," said the other in a shaky sort ofvoice.

  Instantly the small man was all attention. He put down his newspaper andbeamed through his glasses at the stranger.

  "I have one room," said he. "It is on the third floor, but it is a goodroom and well furnished. Will you look at it?"

  "Yes, if you please," quavered the man with the bent shoulders.

  The little harness-maker lighted a candle and led the way to a staircaseat the side which opened into the street. A troop of children hadpossession of it and their shrill outcries as they ran up and down weredeafening. Like a fury the Pole ran among them, scattering them rightand left.

  "But they are good children," he told the prospective tenant, "and theymake very little noise."

  The room was small and had a window opening upon a court; the furniturewas scant and the floor was bare.

  "Once," confessed the little harness-maker, "I had a carpet for it; butthere were so many holes in it at last, that I took it up. Some day,"hopefully, "I shall get another."

  The other gave a glance about.

  "I shall take it--if it is not too much."

  "Six dollars a month is not too much," said the tradesman landlord. "Itis worth more."

  "I'll give you five," stated the other, in his shaky voice.

  The Pole gestured his despair; the candle went up and down and the twohuge shadows jigged grotesquely upon the wall.

  "It is worth six," he said. "The last tenant paid that much without aword."

  "He was rich," suggested the other. "No one but a man of means would paythat."

  "He was not rich," protested Brekling. "He was as poor as a rat. I knowthat, for he was a countryman of mine, and there are no rich Poles."

  The man with the bent shoulders counted out five dollars in small coinupon a table.

  "I will pay a month in advance," said he.

  The little man looked at the pile of silver for a moment; unable toresist, he said:

  "Very well, I will take it. But the room is worth more."

  He scraped up the money and put it away in his pocket; the other tookoff his hat and laid it upon the table and looked about with the mannerof a man at home.

  "Have you any other lodgers?" he asked.

  "There are three families on the floor below, and then there are a fewmechanics on this. But they are all decent people," earnestly."Sometimes they take a little too much, but not often. You will findthat they are quiet enough." Then after a look at his new tenant, "Youwill move in at once?"

  "To-morrow. And now, if you don't mind, I should like to be leftalone."

  "Of course," said the little harness-maker. "Of course."

  And so he went out and down the stairs to his shop. If he had been acurious man and had loitered on the landing and put his eye to thekeyhole, he would have witnessed an unusual sight. For the door had nosooner closed behind him than the cadaverous-looking man altered inappearance like an enchanted prince in a fairy-tale. The bent shouldersdisappeared, the tread as he moved swiftly about the room was firm andnoiseless, the face became keen and resolute, the eyes alert and eager.He drew off the long black coat and with sleeves tucked up began asearching examination of the room. The closet, the bureau, thewash-stand came first; then the edges of the floor. The contents of asmall sheet-iron stove were dragged out; amid the coal ash was muchburnt paper, but apparently nothing that brought the searcher anyreward. After about an hour, he stood in the center of the room,defeated.

  "Friend Karkowsky is a careful man," he muttered. "There is not a scrapof anything."

  He put on his coat and hat and left the room. Once outside the door, theshuffle reappeared in his gait, the cadaverous look returned, and theshoulders bent wearily. In the shop, the harness-maker was once moreengaged with the Polish newspaper; he looked up as his new tenant camein.

  "Your last lodger was not careful," complained the latter in his shakyvoice. "The room is in quite a state."

  "But I will fix it," announced the Pole accommodatingly. "I always treatmy lodgers right; never has one complained. But _I_ often had tocomplain. Now, that same man--the one that had your room last--gave memuch trouble. Would you believe it, the police came at last!"

  "Ah, yes. He was a disturber."

  "No, no. Indeed, he was very quiet. Even when the other lodgers made anoise he did not get mad. The only person he ever quarreled with wasJackson."

  "And who is Jackson?"

  "He is the postman. It was something about letters that they foughtover. Once Karkowsky called the letter man a dunce. But Jackson onlylaughed."

  An hour later, in his study, Ashton-Kirk took down the telephonereceiver and asked for a certain number. When he was connected he asked:

  "Is that Postal Station Seven?"

&n
bsp; "It is," came the reply.

  "Can you give me the address of Postman Jackson, attached to thatstation?"

  "No. But I can tell you where you can get him if you want him to-night."

  "I'll be obliged to you."

  "Call up Wonderleigh's place; he's sure to be there at this hour,playing pinochle in the back room. The number's 35-79 Parkside."

  In a few moments the secret agent had Mr. Jackson on the wire.

  "I want to speak to you about Karkowsky, lately on your route," said he.

  There was a laugh at the other end; then the postman answered:

  "This ain't the police?"

  "Not exactly, but something of the sort."

  "Well, I've kind of expected that somebody would ask me about that oldscout; they seem to have asked everybody else."

  "Would you mind telling me about the trouble you had with him regardingsome letters?"

  "Oh, that! Sure. You see, Karkowsky for the first while that he lived atBrekling's place received a letter a couple of times a week that alwaysgot my attention. It was in a woman's writing--kind of a foreign writingthat was mighty hard to make out. It was always a brown, squareenvelope, and it was always post-marked at Central Station. I couldn'ttell you all this about most of the letters I handle, but this one gaveme so much trouble at first finding out what the address was that I knewit by heart.

  "One day I handed one of them to Karkowsky, and he threw it back at me.

  "'That's not for me,' he said. And sure enough it wasn't. It was foranother party a couple of blocks away--a party that was new to my route.This same mistake happened a couple of times--me being so used to theletters that I never looked at 'em twice--and every time old Karkowskygot his back up. One day I kidded him about losing his girl and said Iguessed some other fellow had won her out, seeing that he was gettingall the letters, and Karkowsky swore. He called me some hard names thatday and threatened to report me. So I cut out the jokes."

  "When the letters began arriving for the second person they ceased forKarkowsky?"

  "Right away. He never got another one."

  There was a moment's silence; then the secret agent asked:

  "Can you recall this other person's name?"

  "Oh, yes. It's Kendreg. He lives on the top floor of 424 Lowe Street."

  After Ashton-Kirk had hung up he sat for a few moments, a peculiarexpression on his face. Then he pressed one of the row of buttons. Whileawaiting a response, he penciled a few lines upon a tablet; when Fullercame in he tore off the sheet and handed it to him.

  "Give this to Burgess," he requested. "Have him look this person upquietly. Tell him to work under cover as much as possible; and toespecially note if he has any women visitors."

  "Very well," said Fuller; and turning he left the room.