Her Forbidden Knight

by Rex Stout

  “It’s early,” said Lila at the door. “Won’t you come up and read to me—or talk?”

  Knowlton replied that he had an engagement downtown at midnight, which left him an empty hour, and that he would rather spend it with her than anywhere else, and if she were sure he wouldn’t annoy her—

  “Come,” Lila smiled, starting toward the stairs. Knowlton followed.

  They talked of the concert. Then Knowlton read a portion of Otho the Great, while Lila lay back in an easy chair with closed eyes.

  Now and then he would stop, asking softly, “Are you asleep?” and Lila would slowly open her eyes and smile at him and shake her head.

  The tones of his voice, though lowered, filled the room with the musical cadences of the Poet of Beauty.

  At the end of the second act he looked at his watch and closed the book suddenly, observing that he had only twenty minutes to get downtown.

  “I suppose you are going to sell a swamp,” said Lila, rising from her chair. “But what an hour!”

  Knowlton did not answer. He found his coat and hat and said good night. At the door he turned and there was a new note in his voice—of seriousness and deep feeling—as he said:

  “Tomorrow I shall have something to say to you. It has been hard to keep from telling you before, but I felt I had no right. Then—thank God—I shall be free. And I don’t want to wait till evening. Will you lunch with me?”

  Lila said “Yes,” and before she could speak further Knowlton continued:

  “I will call for you at the Lamartine at twelve o’clock, if that isn’t too early. Tomorrow—at noon.”

  He turned and departed hurriedly, without giving her time to answer.

  At the door he glanced at his watch—a quarter to twelve. He had dismissed the cab. He started at a rapid pace for the Elevated station on Columbus Avenue and barely caught a downtown train.

  During the ride he kept glancing impatiently at his watch. Beside him on the seat was a late evening newspaper and he picked it up and tried to read, but was unable to compose himself. His midnight engagement was evidently not with a prospective customer.

  At Twenty-eighth Street he left the train, walked east to Broadway, and entered a café on the corner.

  The café was very similar to a thousand others on that street and in that neighborhood. It was half filled with men and completely filled with tobacco smoke. On the right was the bar; to the rear a series of partitions and doors leading to the inner rooms; on the left, a few tables and chairs and a row of stalls with leather seats surrounding wooden tables.

  Knowlton glanced quickly round, noted that the hands of the clock above the bar pointed to a quarter past twelve, then walked slowly down the room in front of the stalls, glancing in at the occupants of each as he passed.

  At the fifth stall he halted. The man seated there looked up quickly, and at sight of Knowlton rose to his feet and held out his hand.

  “You’re late,” he said gruffly.

  Knowlton, without replying, edged his way into the corner and sat down.

  The man gazed at him curiously.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look pale.”

  “Don’t talk so loud,” said Knowlton, glancing at a group of three men who had halted within a few feet of the stall.

  “All right,” the other agreed good-naturedly. “Anyway, there’s not much to say.”

  Reaching in his inside overcoat pocket, he drew forth a small flat package about the size of a cigar-box, wrapped in brown paper.

  “Here’s the stuff,” he continued, placing the package on the seat beside Knowlton. “Shove it away quick. The usual amount—two hundred at one-tenth.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  The words came from Knowlton in a whisper and with an apparent effort; but his manner was calm and unruffled.

  The other half rose from his seat.

  “Don’t want it!” he cried; but at a warning glance from Knowlton he dropped back and continued in a whisper:

  “What’s up now? Cold feet? I always thought you was a baby. You’ve got to take it.”

  Knowlton repeated with calm decision:

  “I don’t want it. I’m through.”

  There ensued a controversy lasting a quarter of an hour. Knowlton was quiet but determined; the other, insistent and nervously excited. Several times Knowlton cautioned him to speak lower, as the same group of men remained standing near the stall, and others were constantly passing within earshot.

  Finally, finding Knowlton utterly immovable, the man sighed resignedly and picked up the package and replaced it in his pocket.

  “If you won’t, you won’t,” he said. “And now, pal, let me tell you something: you’re a wiser guy than I thought you was. They’re after us. I beat it on the one-thirty tonight for Montreal.”

  “And yet—” Knowlton began indignantly.

  “No, I wasn’t.” the other interrupted. “I wouldn’t have let you sow it here. All I wanted was the two hundred, then I’d put you next. But you was next already.”

  Knowlton smiled, knowing the uselessness of any attempt to explain his own motives, and rose to depart, when the other, remarking that he was about due at the station, rose also, and they left the café together. In front they parted, with a smile and a good word. Knowlton walked home with a singing heart, thinking and dreaming of the morrow.

  Twenty minutes later, in a room not twenty blocks away from the one where Knowlton was sleeping peacefully, two men were conversing in low, eager tones.

  One, a tall, dark man with an evil countenance, was sitting on the edge of the bed dressed in pajamas; the other, with overcoat and hat, was standing in front of him.

  “He spent twenty minutes at a café on Twenty-eighth and Broadway, talking with Red Tim,” one was saying.

  “And who is Red Tim?” asked the man on the bed.

  “Number something-or-other in the gallery down at headquarters. Known from Frisco to the Battery. Just now he seems to be shoving the queer. He tried to give a bundle to your man, but he said he was through, and wouldn’t take it.

  “Evidently, though, he has some of it—your man, I mean. I could have taken Red Tim with the goods on, but I was looking out for you. It might have wised your man to the game.”

  The man on the bed was calm and thoughtful.

  He asked some questions, and his eyes lit up with satisfaction at the answers.

  “You’ve done well, Harden,” he said finally. “I suspected this, and now I guess we’ve got him. It’s too late to try to do anything tonight. Come round early in the morning; I may need you. Here’s a ten. Good night.”

  The other, who had turned to go, stopped at the door to call back:

  “Good night, Mr. Sherman.”

  CHAPTER IX.

  Betrayed

  THE ERRING KNIGHTS HAD FOR TWO MONTHS been divided into hostile camps, in support of two widely differing doctrines.

  One division, consisting of Dumain, Driscoll, and Jennings, advanced the argument that it was no part of their duty to protect Lila against herself, and that if she chose to disregard their solemn warnings against Knowlton it was up to her.

  The other division, to which Dougherty, Booth, and Sherman belonged, declared that they owed it to Miss Williams and to themselves to throw Knowlton from the top of the Flatiron Building, or cut him up into very small pieces, or tie him to a rock at the bottom of New York Bay.

  They were all pretty good talkers, and they had many wordy discussions, renewed every time they saw Knowlton enter the lobby and take Lila out with him. They concocted many schemes, and at one time even went so far as to consider an offer from Sherman to procure the services of an East Side gang.

  But they never did anything. They talked too much.

  This was not without its utility. It furnished any amount of amusement to the Venus at the cigar stand.

  If Dougherty approached to buy a cigar, or light one, she would whisper mysteriously, “Is he dead?” and pre
tend unbounded amazement when informed that Knowlton had been allowed to live a day longer. And all that was needed to start Dumain off on a frenzied oration was for her to observe scornfully: “Gee, I thought a Frenchman had some nerve!”

  But most successful of all was her conundrum: “Why are the Erring Knights like the Republican party?” The answer, wrung from her after several days of entreaties and threats, was: “Because their protective system is on the fritz.”

  But to the Erring Knights themselves the thing was no joke. They talked and schemed and discussed and argued. Dumain and Driscoll were strong for moderation, and succeeded in holding the others in check, sometimes even going so far as to threaten to support Knowlton when the others became unusually reckless in their suggestions. But the attacks of Booth and Dougherty, and especially Sherman, were persistent, and they began to weaken.

  On the morning following the events narrated in the preceding chapter Dougherty entered the lobby earlier than usual and found Dumain and Jennings talking to Miss Hughes. Walking over to the cigar stand, he grunted, nodded to the Venus, and pointed with his finger to his particular brand.

  “A little off-color?” said Miss Hughes, setting the box in front of him on the counter.

  “Best you’ve got?” Dougherty grunted, selecting a cigar.

  “Oh, I meant you!” she grinned. “The cigars are all right. You look like you’d been playing the title role at a leather wedding.”

  “Huh!” Dougherty grunted.

  “Let heem alone,” Dumain smiled. “He has zee temperament. He ees veree dangerous.”

  This awakened Dougherty.

  “Shut up!” he exploded. “When I’m like I am now I’m bad.”

  Whereupon Dumain giggled and Jennings roared. Dougherty started for them, and they retreated to the leather lounge in the corner.

  Soon Driscoll arrived, and, finding Dougherty gazing moodily out of the window, took him over to join the others, stopping on the way to say good morning to Lila.

  “Pipe the gown!” said Dougherty, with a backward motion of the head as they halted in front of Dumain and Jennings.

  “Where?”

  “Miss Williams. She’s lit up like a cathedral. You know what that means.”

  The others protested ignorance, and he went on to explain:

  “She’s expecting Knowlton. Don’t tell me. I can see it. And if that guy comes around here today I’ll act up. Believe me, he’s through.”

  That started them. The word “Knowlton” was enough. When Booth entered ten minutes later he found Dougherty holding his own valiantly against Dumain, Driscoll, and Jennings.

  Booth brought fuel for the flame. His first words were: “I saw Knowlton last night.” Then, seeing that he had their attention, he added: “With Miss Williams.”

  They stared at him and demanded particulars.

  “It was by accident,” he went on. “A friend of mine said he had tickets to a show, and asked me to go. I went. Great jumping frogs! He said it was a show. Well, it was in a hall—the hall was all right—on Forty-second Street.

  “Four little dagoes came out with violins. For two solid hours they sat there, looking kinda sick. What did they play? Search me. It sounded like a—”

  “But what about Knowlton?”

  “Oh, yes! Well, when I went in who did I see two rows ahead? Mr. John Knowlton and Miss Lila Williams, side by side. When the dagoes pulled off anything particularly awful they’d turn and look at each other as much as to say: ‘I heard that tune the last time I was in Heaven.’ And he called it a show!”

  “That proves I was right,” said Dougherty, rising to his feet and glaring down at Dumain. “He’s been going up to her house maybe every night, and we’ve been sitting here like boobs. Just because he came to the hotel only once a month you thought that was all he saw her. And here he’s been—Do what you please. I’m going to get him.”

  Dumain and Driscoll were genuinely shocked. They had really thought that Knowlton had not seen Lila except the few times he had called at the hotel; Booth’s tale was a revelation. Besides, they had already begun to weaken in their support of Knowlton. And perhaps now they were too late.

  “Where’s Sherman?” Dougherty was saying. “I can count on him.”

  “And us,” chorused the others.

  “Wait a minute,” said Dumain. “I tell you. We owe something to her. Well, I go and ask her—never mind what I ask her. Anyway, you wait. Eet weel take me only a minute. Go to zee billiard room.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Dougherty protested.

  But the others persuaded him that Dumain was right and led him off to the billiard room, while the little Frenchman took his courage between his teeth and crossed to Lila’s desk.

  Lila was indeed, as Dougherty had expressed it, “lit up.” She wore a dress of very soft and very dark brown, relieved at the cuffs and throat and down the front of the waist by bits of cream lace.

  Her eyes glowed, too, and her lips were parted as though in happy expectancy. It will be remembered that at twelve o’clock she was to lunch with Knowlton.

  As Dumain approached her desk she looked up and smiled brightly.

  “You are veree chic,” said Dumain, surveying her with admiration.

  “What is French for ‘blarney’?” Lila demanded.

  “No,” said Dumain; “really, you are.” Then: “Were you at home last night?” he blurted out.

  Lila showed her surprise at the question, answering:

  “Why—no. I attended a concert.”

  Then Dumain plunged in.

  “I know,” he said. “Wiz zat Knowlton.”

  Lila was silent. It had been many days since they had spoken to her of Knowlton.

  “Were you not?” Dumain demanded.

  She said: “Yes.”

  The little Frenchman continued:

  “You must excuse me eef I speak frankly. Long ago we said he was not good, yet you continue to see heem. Dear lady, do you not theenk we know? Eet ees for you we care.”

  “But why?” Lila demanded. “You know, Mr. Dumain, if anyone else spoke to me like this I should be angry. But I know you mean to be kind, and I cannot offend you. But I must if you speak this way about Mr. Knowlton. He, too, is my friend.”

  “Only zat?” Dumain demanded.

  “Only—what do you mean?”

  “Only a friend?”

  “What—what else should he be?”

  “Mon Dieu!” Dumain exploded, angry at what he thought her assumption of ignorance. “What else? What do you theenk a man like Knowlton wants with a prettee girl like you? Friendship! Ha! Zee kind of friendship zat—”

  But the sight of Lila’s pale cheeks and flashing eyes stopped him. She did not speak, nor was it necessary. Dumain withstood the fire of her glance for a short second, then fled precipitately.

  He found the others waiting for him in the billiard room, which at this early hour—eleven o’clock—was empty. They gathered around him, demanding an account of his success.

  “Zee only theeng to do,” said Dumain, “ees to finish Knowlton. She ees veree angry. For two months I have thought it best to wait, and now—she loves heem. Eet ees een her eyes. He ees one big scoundrel!”

  “That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say for a long time,” observed Dougherty.

  “I guess I’m with you,” said Driscoll.

  “I’m on,” came from Jennings.

  “What did she say?” asked Booth.

  “Nozzing,” said Dumain. “She just looked. Eet made a hole through me. Eet ees no good to talk to her.”

  At that moment Sherman entered the billiard room.

  “No need to convert you,” shouted Jennings, hailing him.

  “What’s that?” asked Sherman, stopping beside the group.

  “Why, about Knowlton. We’ve decided to fix him. He was with Miss Williams last night.”

  “Do you call that news?” asked Sherman scornfully.

  “Why, how did you kn
ow?”

  “I saw them. Do you think because you’re blind everyone else is? Also, he was with her Wednesday night and Monday.”

  “Where?” Dougherty demanded.

  “Never mind where. Anyway, they were together. I suppose you’re ready to listen to me now,” Sherman sneered. “After I’ve done all the work and set the trap for him, you’re quite willing to spring it.”

  “Don’t get heady,” Dougherty advised. “What is this trap stuff? And what do you mean by ‘work’? If you were so Johnnie Wise, why didn’t you put us next?”

  “And have Dumain or Driscoll running off to slip the information to Mr. Knowlton?” sneered Sherman. “Hardly. I’m not that kind. At last I’ve got Knowlton where I want him. I’ll make him look like a monkey—all I’ve got to do is pull the string. You guys that love him so much had better hurry around and tell him good-by.” As he said this last, Sherman, glancing keenly around, could observe no sign of sympathy or pity for Knowlton on the faces that were eagerly surrounding him.

  “But what are you talking about?” they demanded.

  “Do you think I’ll tell you?” asked Sherman scornfully.

  They protested that they were fully as hostile toward Knowlton as he could possibly be, and suggested that he might find their assistance useful. Sherman admitted that they were possibly correct.

  “Well, then, what is it?” they demanded. “Where’s the trap?”

  Still Sherman hesitated. He knew perfectly well that he could easily perfect his plans and carry them out without assistance; but he had a reason, and a strong one, for letting the Erring Knights in on it. The question was, would anyone of them warn Knowlton? He glanced again keenly around the circle of faces, and said for a feeler:

  “I know enough to put him behind the bars.”

  “What’s the dope?” asked Dougherty, frowning.

  “Counterfeiting,” replied Sherman, evidently satisfied with his scrutiny.

  “Round ones?”

  “No. Paper.”

  He was immediately besieged with questions:

  “Was it tens? He always had ’em.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Is he in with the aristocrats?”

  “Does he make it or sow it?”