He looked at the card. “I’ll be making my plans and figuring on them a little closer in the meantime. And while you’re about it, Gryce, write out the spelling of this dago violin player. I don’t want to sign wrong and crab the beautiful game.” He paused. “I’ll go as a clown, of course. That’ll give me a chance for the grease paints. And how are you going to be masked?”
The big man went momentarily white under his pink skin. “For heaven’s sake, Moonface, never mind me. Stay away from me the whole evening. I can’t afford to take chances. Never mind how I’m going to be masked.” His voice rose. “Remember — remember — stay away from me. Don’t try to find me out and talk to me. I don’t want you near me. I tell you I can’t afford to take chances.”
“Oh — all right,” returned Moonface frigidly. “As you like it.”
The two men sat for a few minutes longer discussing some minor details of the plan, the bigger of the two describing in turn the girl, Shirley Eldredge; her father, Rufus Eldredge; and her brother, Malcolm Eldredge. Finally, Moonface, engraved card tucked snugly away in the breast pocket of his cut-away coat, his slender cane once more in his hand, arose.
“Then all’s fixed,” he said cheerfully. “All the scenes set for the big show. Where do I meet you the afternoon after the ball?”
“Come straight here,” said the big man, “and bring the haul. He dipped into his trousers pocket and fished up a steely-looking key. “Here’s a duplicate key I made myself from the hotel one. Use this if I’m not here, and come inside and wait for me. These upper halls are deserted. If you haven’t the nerve, call me by ‘phone and let me know where to see you outside. We’ll have to put the bigger deal through quick.”
With a few parting words Moonface left the room. Once out of the elevator he slipped like a shadow from the hotel and boarded the first car on Clark Street. Inside of twenty minutes he was entering a dirty-looking curio shop on Halsted Street, its window filled with brass andirons, faded paintings, and curious carving. An old man with a long white beard and beady, shifty eyes, wearing a black silk skull-cap, came from the dark interior of the store and peered at his customer from behind the counter.
Moonface, evidently familiar with the place and the owner, inclined his head meaningly towards the back of the store, and then, skipping behind the counter, passed rearward into a dark little room fitted with a bed, a few dishes, and a gas-plate. The bearded shop-owner hobbled after him.
As soon as they were back of the partition that cut off the front of the store, Moonface asked in a low voice: “Krellwitz, are you in condition to pass over some cold cash Saturday morning for some sparklers — say a big sum this time?”
“Alvays retty, Moonvace,” quavered the old man. “How mooch gash I neet haf on hant, eh?”
“How much are you paying per carat now?” queried the man with the cane.
“Shust as bevore. I bay feefty dollars per carat if dey ees a bure vite diamont.”
“You dirty robber!” groaned the younger man bitterly. “Pure white perfect stones are worth two hundred and fifty per in the market.” He paused, reflecting. “Krellwitz, have as much as ten thousand dollars in cold cash around you Saturday morning or afternoon. You’ll see me again. That’s all for to-day.”
He left the shop, the old fence rubbing his hands and mumbling to himself. Outside in the clear bright sunlight of Halsted Street, Moonface stared up at the blue sky and smiled a broad, quizzical smile.
“Little Moonface to be the cat’s-paw, eh?” he queried genially to himself. “To draw in the hot chestnuts for our friend in the Plaza on the strength of his ‘phony yarn — turn over the stuff and then have him tell me the deal fell through? Does he think Eddy Chang was born yesterday, I wonder? Well, I guess not. We’ll play his little game exactly up to the point where we get the stuff, then a visit to old Krellwitz and we’re gone from this risky burg for good.”
He bowed sardonically towards the Plaza Hotel, many miles to the north-east. “Thanks, thanks, kind, good friend of South American days, for the valuable little ticket to the Eldredge masquerade ball and the so painstaking arrangements for our identity and safe-conduct for to-morrow night. If it’s the opportunity it looks to be, little Eddy’ll be on his way to Australia by Saturday noon.”
Inserting a cigarette into an expensive amber holder, he lit it and strolled down Halsted Street in the bright sunshine, smiling absently at the street gamins who wrestled back and forth along the dingy sidewalks.
CHAPTER IV
WILK CASPERSON, MOTH FOR A NIGHT
STRUGGLING before the chiffonier in his little room into an elaborate masquerade suit intended to represent a huge yellow moth, Wilk Casperson turned as he heard a sharp knock on the door.
“Come in,” he said, working off the tinfoil on a stick of ochre grease paint.
The door of the room opened, and a youngish, alert fellow, perhaps twenty-five years of age, clad in a grey suit and carrying a cane, entered the room. He stood open-mouthed in the doorway.
“What the — ” he ejaculated, and stopped.
The man in the elaborate costume smiled. “Don’t get alarmed, Arthur. Come on in. Close the door behind you. I’m only getting ready for the big mask at the Eldredges’ on Lake Shore Drive. To-night, through the courtesy of Miss Shirley Eldredge, I move in actual society!”
The man in the grey suit stepped inside, closed the door, and dropped into the nearest chair.
Wilk Casperson, smearing the stick across his freshly-shaved cheek, spoke to the younger man, watching the latter’s reflection in the mirror. “Well, Arthur Sennet, what do you think of our chances?” he asked. “As each day goes by, and the final hour of the judges’ decision comes closer, I feel more and more cheerful. How do you feel about it?”
The younger man tapped nervously on the floor with his cane. “Wilk, I can’t help but feel that we’ve copped the big prize. I’ve a terrific hunch that we’re going to be the winners. And if we do, old man, the names of Arthur Sennet and Wilk Casperson are made along two lines of creative work — advertising and detective novels! It’s tough to approach the ladder of literary fame by way of commercial lines, but the main thing is to get there. I was reading the carbon of the manuscript over again to-day — and, Wilk, I feel it’s a pippin.”
Casperson paused in front of the chiffonier. He turned and regarded the younger man across from him curiously. “How soon,” he ventured tensely, “do you anticipate we would hear our fate — if we actually were the winners?”
“My hunch,” admitted Sennet, “is that we would hear to-night — if — if it were really the case that we win. The decision is to be rendered by nine o’clock on Friday night, this day of the month and year. In fact, Wilk, old boy, I’ve a feeling that I’m going to get a telegram at my old address — the one given on the manuscript — before midnight, telling us that we win the ten-thousand-dollar prize. I moved yesterday on account of my landlady needing the room for a relative of hers, but I’ve left orders with the house to forward any telegram immediately to my new quarters. And I, in turn, will call you up at once. Gosh, Wilk, wouldn’t it be tremendous?”
“Arthur, I’ve never told you how much it means to me if we win that prize. Aside from the fact that we’re made, if we can continue to deliver such goods — and we can — that money means the most wonderful little girl in the word to me. It’s Shirley Eldredge, Arthur, the only daughter of Rufus Eldredge, in whose home the mask ball is going to be held to-night.”
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Sennet, peering at him. “And you never even breathed it before. And it’s all settled, is it? How in the devil did you put it over? And what does the old man think of it? You — an ordinary advertising man — marrying the daughter of a La Salle Street millionaire broker. What does he say?”
Casperson shook his head dolefully. “Shirley says he will never agree. There’s only one way for us to pull it off: we’ve simply to walk off — be married — and then let him do as he pleases.
“They had me write the booklet,” Casperson continued. “I was on salary and wrote simply along the lines laid down to me by the heads of the agency. I did the best I could. I sowed the seeds of distrust of the proposition. Bock & Co. had in some way secured the names of the entire list of picked investors which Eldredge & Co. counted on as clients — and which they already had circularised. One of these booklets was sent to every one. And I afterwards heard that it killed the proposition cold with the investors.”
“And then what?” asked Sennet breathlessly.
“Simply this,” replied Casperson: “Eldredge prepared to sue Bock & Co. and the National Advertising Agency for defamation and conspiracy to injure his business. That was what brought about our meeting. And through that meeting at his home I became acquainted with Shirley Eldredge. In the hour that she and I talked that day, while I waited for Eldredge to arrive and tell me what he wanted with me, I became a believer in the theory of love at first sight. However, no need to bore you with that.
“Eldredge arrived home,” he went on. “He tried to induce me to agree to go on the witness stand and testify that my employers had requested me to cast discredit on his particular stock flotation instead of upon the general principles underlying it. I was in a quandary. Then what happened? The president of the company in question committed suicide and the treasurer skipped to Mexico. The books were found to be full of forgeries and in such shape that it was forced into bankruptcy in a jiffy. On top of that, half of its patents were found to be infringements.
“Eldredge doesn’t seem to want to see it,” Casperson continued, “but I saved the good name of his house by killing that stock flotation. And since then — well, he’s as bitter as the devil against me, yet he doesn’t try to interfere when Shirley invites me to their home for an evening chat.”
Arthur Sennet heard him through. “Well, that’s certainly some story, old man,” he said, when his friend had finished. “You’re obviously in Dutch with ‘Wall Street ‘; but don’t worry about it. Take the girl, and to the devil with the old man. I tell you, old boy, we’ve got to win that prize. Ours is the most original advertising scheme entered in the whole contest. I’ll stake my life on that.”
“Ye gods!” murmured Casperson fervently; “I sure hope so. If we win I’ll take her quickly. But, if we lose, I don’t know what I will do. I can’t take her without a decent stake — and I’ve told her so. At any rate, notify me the minute you hear from the judges — if fate decrees that you are to hear.”
He turned to the mirror again, and raised the grease paint to his cheek. “Don’t go, Arthur. Stick around a while and I’ll go on colouring up my face. I’m supposed to be a perfect imitation of a giant moth.” He pointed to the bed, on which lay a brown, fuzzy cap with two long wiry projections on it. “There’s my antennæ over there.”
Sennet stared curiously at the finishing of the strange costume. Then he rose with a sign of tension. “No; I’m going on, old man. Stepped in only for a moment. I’m under such a strain that I’m too restless to do more than walk up and down. We may hear something — we might hear nothing at all. But the most we can do is to wait. Good luck to you. Dance a dance with the little lady for me. And pray for good luck, old man, for both of us. It means five thousand dollars apiece — a new stake and a lease on life for each of us. I’ll get in touch with you the minute anything develops.”
He rose, and, with his hand on the knob of the door nodded; then he passed out. Casperson finished the colouring of one side of his cheek and chin; then suddenly arrested the motion. He strode from the chiffonier to the door, where he peered out in the cheerless hall of his rooming-house. “Arthur,” he called sharply.
No reply came from the lower landing. He hurried to the window of his room and stared down in the darkness of Dearborn Avenue, split by two rows of dingy lights. Farther up the street he caught sight of Sennet’s jaunty figure swinging along. He returned to the dresser with a troubled look on his face.
“Confound my stupidity,” he grumbled to himself. “Why didn’t I remember to ask him, before he pulled out, what his new address was?” He fell to work again with the ochre stick. “But I daresay I can get it by ‘phoning his old quarters.”
CHAPTER V
“I’D NEVER HAVE KNOWN YOU, SIR”
THE cab slowed up before a great residence of cherry brownstone, with a tall ornamental iron fence hemming in the spacious grounds, a burnished metal gate pivoted across the smaller front entrance, and a driveway of cement winding around the side to a huge entrance from which bright light blazed out on the dark lawn. The cab turned sharply in here, slowing up presently on account of two limousines which were crawling along the private driveway in front of it. A negro footman in blue livery opened the door of each of the advance carriages in turn and helped out the occupants.
Arriving in front of the big side gate, Casperson got down from his cab and handed the chauffeur a two-dollar bill, waving back the change. The blue-clad negro footman stared at him, the taxi drove off, and he climbed the steps slowly. On the inside of the door a butler clad in grey, with side whiskers and phlegmatic, stolid face, stood guarding the door. From upstairs, access to which was given by a wide-carpeted stairway close by, came the sound of stringed instruments, of many voices, of gliding feet. Casperson handed his engraved invitation to the grey-clad figure, who immediately shoved forward to him a tiny bottle of ink and a gold pen which stood on a stand near by.
“If you please, sir. In case of emergency call, you know, sir.”
“All right, Brayley,” said Casperson, smiling through the heavy grease paint. The butler peered at him, but the retainer’s puzzled face showed no signs of recognition, he politely bent his attention to the signature.
“Mr. Casperson!” he exclaimed, staring down at the name just written on the card. “I’d never have known you, sir. Your costume is one of the best that has gone through here in the last half-hour. The dancing is on the floor above. Please have a dance card. You know the way, sir?”
Casperson nodded and took up the dance programme. pointed down to the suit-case he had brought. “Yes, I know the way. However, Brayley, I’m going home in my own clothes to-night — after I get this confounded rig off. Where can I put my ordinary duds until the dancing is over?”
Brayley motioned to a little room off the inside hall. “There’s the gentlemen’s dressing-room, sir. Just place the suit-case in there, and it will be perfectly safe. I’ll — ” The entrance of a party of two ladies, dressed as Spanish dancing girls, and a man costumed as a bullfighter, caused him to break off his directions to Casperson and attend to the signing of the new cards.
Casperson deposited his suit-case in one corner of the improvised dressing-room, and, emerging, made his way slowly upstairs to the ballroom. Entering it, he paused a moment, struck by the vivid panorama of colour and life there presented. The orchestra was playing a dreamy waltz.
For the rest of the dance Casperson remained standing on the edge of the floor, his own costume the cynosure of all passing eyes. His gaze roved around the huge ballroom, from the musicians back of their palms to the several entrances at the rear which led to the conservatory. Here and there — almost everywhere, it seemed — feminine vanity was displayed in the sparkle of jewels. A slim form in a domino was graced by a diamond bracelet that glittered in myriad electric lights; each of several women, fearfully and wonderfully garbed, wore a chain of jewels on
her neck; across the chest of one elderly woman, who waddled instead of danced, swung like a pendulum a veritable mine of coloured fire in the shape of a pendant sunburst.
“Lord, but they must wear them and show them off,” commented Casperson to himself; “no matter what else they do!”
The dance came to a close. Couples broke up. Some retired to the upholstered seats in the tiny wall pockets at the side of the ballroom. Some melted through the doors of the conservatory at the rear. Others merged into laughing, chatting groups on the centre of the floor.
Casperson, followed by eyes everywhere, picked his way across the room, looking carefully at every woman, searching for a slim feminine figure which he had reason to know was to be garbed as a fairy princess, studying the tiny feet of several girls for a certain pair of gold slippers with jet buckles, scrutinising their hair for the glint of yellow gold. A girl, detaching herself with a light laugh from the conversation of a tall Indian, a black silk mask over her eyes, turned just in time to stare at him. He came up to her. His eyes dropped from the flowing silk garment, banded by a single golden sash, to her feet, which were encased in gold slippers with jet buckles.
“Shirley!” he exclaimed. “It is really you?”
“Wilk!” she returned. “Why, I’d never have known you. Oh, what an original costume. A giant moth!” She drank in the details of the elaborate suite, then motioned towards the conservatory. He took her arm. Together they threaded their way from the ball room into the more quiet place with its tall palms and trees. She led him to a sequestered seat back of a fountain whose water fell into a pool of bright goldfish.
Sing Sing Nights Page 3
