by Rex Stout
He stopped short, perceiving that Lila was not listening to him. She was gazing at Dougherty with what seemed to Driscoll an expression of tender alarm.
“Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly. “Mr. Dougherty!”
That gentleman appeared startled.
“What is it?”
“Your—your—why, what has happened to your nose?”
“My nose?” he repeated, puzzled.
“Yes. What has happened?”
Dougherty raised his hand and roughly grasped that rather prominent feature of his face; then his hand suddenly fell and he made a grimace of pain. Then he remembered.
“Oh,” he said, as carelessly as possible, “a mere nothing. I fell. Struck it against a billiard table.”
Driscoll was doing his best to keep a straight face.
“Mr. Dougherty,” said Lila, shaking a finger at him solemnly, “tell me the truth. You have been fighting.”
The ex-prizefighter and Broadway loafer, blushing like a schoolboy, gathered himself together as though about to attack the entire heavyweight division.
“Well,” he demanded with assumed bravado, “and what if I have been fighting?”
“You promised me you wouldn’t,” said Lila. “That is, you said you wouldn’t—anyone—who annoyed—about me.”
“It wasn’t his fault, Miss Williams,” said Driscoll, coming to his friend’s assistance. “The blame is mine. It is for that I want to apologize. I can’t say how sorry I am, and I hope you’ll forgive me, and if there’s any—I mean—”
Driscoll, too, found himself hopelessly confused by the frank gaze of those brown eyes.
“Anyway,” he ended lamely, “I’ll renew his promise for him. He’ll never do it again.”
“No, you won’t do anything of the kind!” exclaimed Dougherty, who, during the period of relief offered by Driscoll, had fully recovered himself—“nobody shall promise anything for me. And, Miss Williams, I am very sorry I ever made that promise to you. I take it back. What has happened today is proof that I would never be able to keep it, anyway.”
“But you must keep it,” said Lila.
“I can’t.”
“Mr. Dougherty!”
“Well, I’ll try,” Dougherty agreed. “I promise to try. But there are some things I can’t stand for; and we all feel the same way about it. You leave it to us. We know you don’t like us much, and we don’t blame you. But any guy that tries to get into informal communication with your eyes is going to see stars—and that’s no pretty speech, either.”
Lila opened her mouth to renew her protest, but someone approached to send a telegram, and she contented herself with a disapproving shake of the head.
Driscoll touched the ex-prizefighter on the arm.
“Dougherty,” he said, “you’re enough to frighten a chorus girl; and that’s going some. Come on, for Heaven’s sake, and do something to that nose!”
Dougherty allowed himself to be led away.
CHAPTER II.
The Recruit
IT WAS THREE OR FOUR DAYS LATER, ABOUT ONE o’clock in the afternoon, that Pierre Dumain and Bub Driscoll, seated in the lobby of the Lamartine, beheld a sight that left them speechless with astonishment.
They saw Tom Dougherty enter the hotel by the Broadway door, carrying a bouquet of roses—red roses. They were unwrapped, and he bore them openly, flamboyantly, without shame. An ex-prizefighter carrying roses on Broadway in the light of day!
“ ‘Mother, Mother, Mother, pin a rose on me!’ ” they sang in unison.
Dougherty ignored them. He scowled darkly at the hotel clerk, who grinned at him delightedly, and walked boldly down the center of the lobby, past a score of curious eyes. At the telegraph desk he halted and accosted the messenger boy. Lila had gone to lunch.
“Got a vase?” Dougherty demanded.
The boy gaped in complete bewilderment.
“Don’t you know what a vase is?” said Dougherty sarcastically. “V-a-s, vase. Get one.”
“They ain’t any,” said the boy.
“Then get one!” Dougherty roared, producing a dollar bill. “Here, run around to Adler’s. They keep all kinds of ’em. Get a pretty one.”
The boy disappeared. In a few minutes he returned, bearing a huge, showy, glass vase, the color of dead leaves. During his absence Dougherty had kept his back resolutely turned on Dumain and Driscoll, who received only silence in return for their witty and cutting remarks.
“Fill it with water,” commanded Dougherty.
The boy obeyed.
“Now,” said Dougherty, arranging the roses in the vase and placing it on the top of Lila’s desk, “see that you leave ’em alone. And don’t say anything to Miss Williams. If she asks where they came from, you don’t know. Understand?”
The boy nodded an affirmative. Dougherty stepped back a pace or two, eyed the roses with evident satisfaction, and proceeded to the corner where the others were seated.
“Do you know who that is?” said Driscoll in a loud whisper as the ex-prizefighter approached.
“No,” said Dumain. “Who ees eet?”
“Bertha, the flower girl,” Driscoll replied solemnly.
“Oh, shut up!” growled Dougherty. “You fellows have no sentiment.”
Dumain lay back in his chair and laughed boisterously.
“Sentiment!” he gasped. “Dougherty talking of sentiment!”
Then suddenly he became sober.
“All the same, you are right,” he said. “Miss Williams should get zee roses. They seem made for her. Only, you know, eet is not—what you say—correct. We can’t allow it.”
“How?” said Dougherty. “Can’t allow it?”
“Positively not,” put in Driscoll. “Too much of a liberty, my dear fellow. ’Tis presumptuous. You know your own views on the subject.”
This staggered Dougherty. Without a word he seated himself, and appeared to ponder. Dumain and Driscoll, after trying vainly to rouse him by sarcastic observations and comments, finally tired of the sport and wandered over to throw Indian dice for cigars with Miss Hughes. That lady, being wise in her manner, separated them from two or three dollars in as many minutes with ease, complacency, and despatch.
They were rescued by Dougherty, who came bounding over to them with the grace of a rhinoceros.
“I have it!” he exclaimed triumphantly.
“Then hold onto it,” said Driscoll, setting the dice box far back on the counter with an emphatic bang. “You have what?”
“About the roses. See here, Miss Williams ought to have ’em. Dumain said so. Well, why can’t we take turns at it? Say, every day we fill up the vase, each one in his turn. She’ll never know where they come from. Are you on?”
“Wiz pleasure,” said Dumain. “And I’ll tell Booth and Sherman and the others. We’ll have to let them in.”
“Ordinarily,” said Driscoll, “I would be compelled to refuse. Being an actor, and, I think I may add, an artist, my normal condition is that of flatness. But at the present time I have a job. I’m on.”
Thus it was that Lila, on her return from lunch, was surprised by the sight of a floral offering which flamed like a beacon on the top of her desk. She regarded it in wonder while taking off her coat and hat, and glanced up in time to receive a knowing smirk from the hotel clerk. Then she saw the three conspirators observing her furtively with self-conscious indifference. She smiled at them pleasantly, reached up for the vase, and buried her face in the velvet petals. Then, replacing the vase, she seated herself at her desk and picked up a book.
“Gad!” exclaimed Dougherty in high delight. “She kissed ’em! D’ye see that? And say, d’ye notice how they match the pink on her cheeks?”
“My dear fellow,” said Driscoll, “that won’t do. It’s absolutely poetical.”
“Well, and what if it is?” Dougherty was lighting a cigarette at the taper at the cigar stand. “Can’t a prizefighter be a poet?”
“If you are talking of the poetry of m
otion, yes. But this is the poetry of e-motion.”
Miss Hughes, the Venus at the cigar stand, tittered.
“You Erring Knights are funny,” she observed. “Who bought the roses?”
“Us what?” said Dougherty, ignoring the question. “What kind of knights did you say?”
“Erring Knights.”
“She means knights errant,” put in Driscoll.
“I do not,” denied Miss Hughes.
“It’s a pun. Erring Knights.”
“Well,” said Dougherty, “and why not? I like the title.”
And the title stuck. The lobby loungers of the Hotel Lamartine, purveyors of roses and protectors of beauty in distress, shall henceforth be designated by it.
They formed a curious community. What any one of them might have attempted but for the restraining presence of the others may only be conjectured. Collectively, they became the bulwark of innocence; individually, they were—almost anything.
There was Pierre Dumain, palmist and clairvoyant, with offices just around the corner on Twenty-third Street, a little garrulous Frenchman who always had money.
Tom Dougherty, ex-prizefighter, bookmaker, and sport, who was generally understood to be living under the shadow of a secret.
Bub Driscoll, actor and philosopher, about whom there was known just one fact: he had floored Tom Dougherty.
Billy Sherman, newspaper reporter (at intervals), who was always broke and always thirsty.
Sam Booth, typewriter salesman, who was regarded as somewhat inferior because he rose every morning at nine o’clock to go to work.
Harry Jennings, actor, who was always just going to sign a contract to play leads for Charles Frohman.
What a collection of Broadway butterflies for a young girl to accept as protectors and friends! And yet—you shall see what came of it.
For something over a month the roll of membership remained as given above; then, on a day in October, a candidate presented himself for election.
The corner of the lobby preempted by the Erring Knights was that farthest from the Broadway entrance, opposite the telegraph desk. It was partially hidden from the front by two massive marble pillars, and contained an old worn leather lounge, three or four chairs, and a wide window seat.
This corner had been so long occupied by a dozen or so of the oldest habitués that the advent of a stranger within its sacred precincts was held to be an unwarranted intrusion. This opinion was usually communicated to the stranger with speed and emphasis.
Here it was, at about two o’clock in the afternoon, that Driscoll, Sherman, and Dougherty were seated, discoursing amiably.
Sherman, a tall, dark man, with a general air of assertiveness, was explaining the deficiencies and general inutility of the New York press.
The door opened; Dumain approached. At his side was a stranger, whom he introduced to the others as Mr. Knowlton.
“I believe I’ve met Mr. Knowlton before,” said Sherman, extending a hand.
“You have the advantage of me,” said the newcomer politely.
Sherman was silent, but gazed at him curiously as he turned to Driscoll.
They conversed. Knowlton appeared to be educated, well informed, and a good fellow. He also possessed an indefinable air of good breeding—lacking in the others.
Driscoll proposed a game of billiards.
“You’re on,” the others agreed.
“As for me,” said Knowlton. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Want to send a telegram.”
They nodded and proceeded to the billiard room, while Knowlton approached Lila’s desk.
Lila was reading a book, and handed him a pad of blanks absently, without looking up; and when he pushed the telegram across the counter she took it and counted the words, still without looking at him. It was signed “John Knowlton.”
“Eighty cents, please,” said Lila.
As she raised her head and met the eyes of the stranger she was conscious of a distinct and undeniable shock.
Why, she could not have told. There was nothing alarming in the young man’s appearance; he had a very ordinary face and figure, though the former was marked by an unusually genial and pleasing pair of gray eyes, and bore an expression of uncommon frank good nature. Lila, feeling that she was staring at him, flushed and turned aside, and the gray eyes twinkled with an amused smile as their owner took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and held it out to her.
“Is this the smallest you have?” asked Lila, opening the cash drawer.
“I believe it is,” said Knowlton. “Sorry; but you see, being a millionaire, I never care to be bothered with anything smaller. Can you make it?”
Lila examined the contents of the drawer.
“If you’ll take some silver.”
“Anything,” Knowlton smiled.
Lila handed him his change.
“You will send it at once?” asked Knowlton.
She nodded. Knowlton appeared to be in no hurry to leave.
“I suppose that since my business is over I should make my bow and depart,” he said finally. “But I like to talk and I hate billiards.”
“Then why do you play?” Lila asked.
“Why? Oh, why do we do anything? I suppose merely to kill time.”
“But that is wrong. A man ought to do something—something worth while. He should never want to kill time, but to use it.”
“A sermon?” Knowlton smiled.
“I beg your pardon,” said Lila, coloring.
“But I was joking.”
“I know—of course—and it was very silly of me. Only I do believe that what I said is true. I have always wished to be a man.”
“Motion denied,” said Knowlton.
“And that means?”
“That it is impossible. That is to say, my guess is that you are thoroughly a woman. Am I right?”
“Do I look so old?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that! Then we’ll say girl. You are—let’s see—nineteen.”
“Twenty,” Lila declared.
“Well, that leaves one for safety. It really wasn’t a bad guess. It’s always best to—”
“Are you coming, Knowlton?” came a voice.
Billy Sherman was standing in the hall leading to the billiard room, regarding them with a sinister frown.
“Right away,” Knowlton answered. “Didn’t know you were waiting.”
He lifted his hat to Lila and joined Sherman. The two disappeared within.
Lila began humming a tune softly under her breath. She picked up her book and turned to the page she had marked, then suddenly let it fall to the desk, gasping with amazement. She had been conversing familiarly, even intimately, with a man she had never before seen—an utter stranger! And at first she had not even realized it! What had she been thinking of? It was incredible.
“Of course,” she thought, “there was really nothing wrong about it. I suppose I am silly. And yet—how did it happen? He is certainly different from other men. And, oh, what will he think of me? I hope he will understand that I don’t talk to everybody.”
Again she picked up the book and tried to read, but the printed words were blurred and meaningless to her eyes. She was saying to herself over and over: “I wonder what he is thinking of me?”
The truth is, that just at that moment Knowlton was not only thinking of her, but was also talking about her.
On entering the billiard room with Sherman he had found the others waiting. Two or three other games were in progress, and the room was filled with men and smoke, the clicking of balls, and the clinking of glasses. Dumain was sitting on a billiard table to preserve their claim to its use.
“Come on!” called Dougherty; “get a cue!”
Knowlton took one from a rack, tested its weight, and chalked it.
“How do we play?” he asked.
“You and Dougherty, Dumain and I,” said Driscoll. “Sherman’s out.”
The game proceeded. They had run through the first frame and begun o
n the second before Knowlton found opportunity to put his question.
“Who is she?” he said to Dougherty.
Dougherty stared at him.
“Who?”
“The girl at the telegraph desk.”
“None of your business,” said the ex-prizefighter.
“Why,” said Knowlton, surprised at his bruskness, “I meant no offense, I’m sure.”
“That’s all right,” said Dougherty, “but we don’t allow anybody to talk about Miss Williams who doesn’t know her. Perhaps you’ll have that honor—some day.”
“Your shot, Knowlton!” called Driscoll.
Knowlton made a try at a cushion-carrom and missed badly. Dumain, who followed, nursed the balls into a corner and seemed in for a run.
“So her name is Miss Williams?” said Knowlton, returning to Dougherty.
Dougherty turned on him sharply.
“See here,” he said, “I told you not to talk about her.”
“Who’s talking about her? I merely asked her name. Is that an insult?”
“Perhaps not,” Dougherty admitted. “But it’s too familiar. And I don’t like your tone.”
Knowlton assured him that if he read anything but the deepest respect in his tone he was mistaken. This somewhat mollified Dougherty, and he ended by reciting the tale of the Erring Knights.
“I fancied it was something like that,” said Knowlton when he had finished. “And she appears to be all you say she is. But it is really rather amusing. A Broadway gang acting chaperon for a pretty girl! Who would believe it?”
“It’s the hardest job I ever had,” said Dougherty. “See this nose? I got that from a guy that was making eyes at her just the other day—Driscoll yonder. He’s one of us now.”
“And how may one be elected a member of this club?”
“Nothing doing. We’re full up.”
“But I want to join. Really—I’m serious about it. To tell the truth”—Knowlton hesitated—“it’s been such a deuce of a time since I’ve done anything really decent that the idea appeals to me. How about it?”
“Oh, stick round if you want to,” said Dougherty. “If you feel that way about it, I have no objections. And anytime you want to know—”
“Your shot, Dougherty,” called Dumain. “I just ran thirty-two. Zat win zee game. You haven’t got a chance.”
