The Red Ledger

by Frank L. Packard

  "It was not Stolman who fired the shots," declared Stranway emphatically. "I saw the man, and——"

  "No, my boy, it was not Stolman." Charlebois shook his head, smiling without mirth. "If it had been Stolman no mistake would have been made. The shots were fired, it is evident enough, by someone who did not know me personally—a professional gun-man, I should say, a type of which the underworld here in this city is all too full; so full, in fact, that even his price is low, and I believe twenty-five dollars would purchase a man's death at any time. Let us see, then! Stolman makes his bargain, and describes the man who is to be done away with as a short, elderly gentleman, white-haired, blue-eyed, who will enter Talimini's at about six-thirty—that is enough, is it not, for the assassin? There was not likely to be another man closely answering that description who would enter the café at approximately the same hour—yet strangely enough that was exactly what happened, and we have seen the consequences. As for your participation in the affair, there are two reasons. First, by using you Stolman was employing the surest means that suggested itself to him of luring me to the café; second, while he can have no comprehensive knowledge of the scope of the organisation, he evidently knows you as—shall we say?—my 'next in command,' and, once I was out of the way, counted on the object lesson of my death having a lasting and, from his standpoint, salutary effect on your future actions. So far it is clear, unquestionably clear, and we come now to the question—why? For years I have watched him; and for years, unfortunately for me, he has known it. I pass over the fact as self-evident that he would murder me for hate alone, but is there any significance in the attempt having been made to-night rather than at any other time?"

  Charlebois walked nearly half a block before he spoke again, while Stranway kept pace beside him, respecting the other's silence.

  "I do not know," said the little old gentleman, answering his own question at last; "but I believe there is. Early this summer Stolman rented a cottage on a lonely part of the beach near Far Rockaway. I have not been able to discover why. He seldom went near it, and then always alone; but invariably on these occasions he would have a visitor before he left who would stay an hour or so, but that was all. Apart from that, the cottage has been entirely deserted. He went there again this afternoon—alone. I sent Rainier and Sewell to watch him. Creeler, of course, was useless there because Stolman knows him as a friend, and he plainly intimated to Creeler that he desired no company on a little trip he was making out of town. If he is meditating anything for to-night the trump cards are ours, and we must be prepared to play out any game he may initiate. The wounded man was not identified by anyone, so there is no reason for any other word to reach Stolman than that I am either dead or very seriously wounded. He has no reason to believe that the slightest suspicion would be directed against him, for he was out of town when the shooting occurred. On the other hand, he may suspect that the customary watch is being kept on him at Far Rockaway; but, too, he may well count on the news of my death bringing back post-haste to the city whoever might be there. That is logical, is it not? Very well, we will play into his hands. It will be positive evidence to him that I am out of the way. I will send someone out there in an hour, not too hastily, to recall Rainier and Sewell, and I think we can trust to them performing the manoeuvre ostentatiously enough to convince Stolman that, so far as he is concerned, we have thrown up our hands for more vital matters—the running down of my murderer."

  "And then?" asked Stranway tensely—they had come to Broadway and had halted on the corner at the curb.

  "And then," said Charlebois quietly, "you will take their place, my boy—and we shall see! It is seven o'clock now, and you have an hour yet. Get your dinner, and then go to your Sixth Avenue rooms. Stolman knows you, and you must be exceedingly careful in your disguise. Leave your rooms at eight. If I have any further instructions in the meantime I will send them to you. Once out there, there will be help at hand if you require it. You will have no trouble in finding the house—it is known as the MacKellar Cottage." He laid his hand on Stranway's shoulder. "It is understood? If so, I will take this car that is coming."

  "It is understood," Stranway answered briefly.

  "Good, my boy!" said the little old gentleman with a quick, satisfied nod of his head; and then, with an affectionate pressure of his fingers on Stranway's shoulder, he turned abruptly away, stepped into the street and swung, with the agility of the man of forty that he appeared to be, aboard a passing car.

  Chapter IX.

  Stranway Receives a Package

  Table of Contents

  Stolman—who was Stolman? Stranway ate a hasty dinner at a near-by restaurant, his mind far more occupied with that question than with his food. Stolman ran a chain of pawnshops on the lower East Side. That is, they were ostensibly pawnshops; but it was more than probable, it lacked only the proof, that he was the most successful fence in New York—the Mecca of the city thieves with their stolen gains. That much Stranway knew. But who was Stolman that his name should be amongst those on the Red Ledger's pages? What was between this man and Charlebois that had caused the tragedy he had just witnessed? Under what grim circumstances in the days long gone had these two met before? And the end? Why this lonely cottage, visited at rare and infrequent intervals? What was behind it all? What did the night still hold in store?

  From the restaurant, Stranway went at once to his second-floor apartment on Sixth Avenue, and, still revolving these questions and a score of others, in his mind, busied himself in the preparations Charlebois had instructed him to make. He worked rapidly, but it lacked only five minutes to eight when he finally emerged from his dressing-room; and it was but a moment or two later when, at the sound of an automobile stopping in the street below, he stepped to one of the front windows, drew aside the curtain, and, looking out, saw that a large, closed car was drawn up at the curb.

  The game was on—whatever it might prove to be! A little grimly, he let the curtain fall back into place, stepped over to the desk in the corner of the living-room, opened a drawer, took out his automatic, and, slipping the weapon into his pocket, closed the drawer again. Someone was knocking at the door—knocking again. He turned around and leaned nonchalantly against the desk.

  "Come!" he called—and then in a flash his nonchalance vanished, and he sprang eagerly forward. Something was thudding at his brain with sudden hammer blows. The next time ... the next time...! This was the next time—when he had least expected it—when it had been farthest from his thoughts! He felt the red flame into his cheeks. It was the Orchid! "You—you!" he cried.

  She stood in the doorway—the slim, graceful figure all in black, the delicate purple orchid at her corsage—smiling at him with those wide brown eyes that lighted up her features so wondrously—the Orchid! It was the face, the eyes, the smile, the figure that of late had haunted him in his waking and his sleeping hours—the woman whose identity, whose name even, he did not know—who in the last few months had tantalised him almost to the verge of madness with her elusiveness. And now, beautiful, mysterious, inscrutable, she stood before him again. But this was his "next time"—when he had promised himself she should not elude him—not go out of his life until another "next time" with just a few hurriedly spoken words that told him nothing of what he most wanted to know—herself; this time she should not go until he had in some measure at least broken down the mysterious barrier that stood between them.

  "You!" he said again—and, though disguised so far as all outward appearances went in readiness for the night's work, his eyes made no effort to disguise his eagerness.

  A tinge of faintest pink crept to her cheeks.

  "I would hardly have known you," she said in a little confusion.

  Stranway's pulse quickened suddenly. He had never seen her just like this before—she had always been so sure of herself, so thoroughly the master of every situation. But now—this time—there seemed to be a new and glorious self-consciousness about her that——

  "This
is for you," she said hurriedly, thrusting a small package into his hand. "You will find all instructions there. You can read them on the way out—you are to go in the car."

  "Yes; I understand," said Stranway quickly. "But that is strictly business, and"—he flashed a sudden quizzical smile at her—"if that's all on that subject, there's something I want to say to you on quite another that has been——"

  "It is not all," she interrupted in a low voice. "I am to warn you to be particularly careful of—yourself. You are to play a desperate part, and there is the gravest danger."

  The words brought Stranway a cold shock. She was playing a part, too, in the same game to-night!

  He stepped impulsively toward her.

  "And you?" he asked tensely.

  She shook her head.

  "Not to-night," she answered. "I have no further part in this to-night."

  "Well, then, that's all right!" exclaimed Stranway in relief; then, stepping back invitingly from the door: "Now, please, don't stand there on the threshold. There's a thousand and one things I want to ask you. There's——"

  "It is eight o'clock," she said significantly. "You should have started by now. You will see when you have read those papers how vital it is that you should be on time."

  "Yes; but look here!" protested Stranway earnestly. "That's all very well, but this sort of thing can't go on, you know, and——" He was staring at nothing more interesting than the closed door.

  He could hear her running down the stairs. He stuffed the package he still held into his pocket, picked up his hat from the table, switched off the lights, groped his way to the door, jerked it open viciously, locked it behind him, and then raced down the stairs. He reached the front door, stepped out into the street, and stared in all directions around him. She was gone! Where no one else could have disappeared, she had vanished, was swallowed up in thin air!

  He laughed a little savagely, then crossed the sidewalk and peered into the face of the man on the driver's seat of the car.

  "You, eh, Creeler? Where's——" He stopped. It was quite useless!

  "What?" asked Creeler, bending forward.

  "Nothing!" said Stranway. "You've got your orders? You know where to go?"

  "Yes," Creeler answered.

  "Well, go on, then!" directed Stranway tersely, yanking the door open and springing into the body of the car.

  He sank back on the cushions, and for a very long time after the car had started he did not stir from his position. The Orchid! Always, ever elusive—tormenting him, distracting him! Who was she? How had she come into the life of Henri Raoul Charlebois—into the life of the organisation? Why was her identity kept a secret—why the mystery? How beautiful she was! His jaws snapped together—next time, no matter what the circumstances, what the surroundings, he would—his jaw fell a little—there had just been a "next" time, and he knew as much about her now as he had known before! And then Stranway shook his head. No, that wasn't so! Somehow, to-night everything was changed! A strange, wistful smile touched his lips. She was no longer merely an unsolved enigma—she was the one woman in the world.

  Stranway came back with a start to a realisation of the present. He pulled down the window curtains, and switched on the little dome-light in the car; then he took the package from his pocket, and opened it.

  On top was a pile of crisp banknotes, held together by a rubber band. He counted the notes rapidly—they were all of hundred-dollar denomination—two hundred of them, twenty thousand dollars in all. He tossed them on the seat beside him, and took up one of the two envelopes, which, apart from the banknotes, was all that the package had contained.

  The envelope was unsealed, and was addressed to "Herman Stolman, Esq." The brief note inside dated from Vancouver, B.C., six days ago, ran:

  "DEAR HERM,—Bearer is Sam Larson and he's O.K., and has the stuff. Couldn't send Trix this time because he's handed in his checks—drew a lead ace in a bar-room up in Bonanza, Y.T., two months ago. Mix 'em up for Sam about equal—Yankee yellows and English 5's.

  "Yrs., ——"

  The signature was an absolutely undecipherable scrawl.

  Stranway read the note over again—and yet once more. When he finally laid it down beside the banknotes, his brows were gathered in a puzzled frown.

  The other envelope was addressed to himself in the little old gentleman's crabbed hand. Stranway tore it open, extracted a closely-written sheet, and began to read it. And slowly the puzzled expression faded from his face, and a grim droop settled at the corners of his mouth.

  He had lost track of time when finally the car stopped, and the door opened.

  "You're within a three minutes' walk of the house," said Creeler in a low voice. "I don't dare take the car any nearer."

  "Right!" said Stranway calmly, stepping to the ground. "Which way?"

  "The cross-road to the left," Creeler answered. "It's the first house and the only one. Just around the turn."

  It was very dark—and cool from the night breeze blowing from the ocean. Before he had taken half a dozen steps Stranway buttoned his coat tightly. From his left, the low, moaning throb of the waves rolling on the beach reached him.

  Presently, rounding the turn, a single gleam of light cut suddenly through the darkness. Stranway headed for it, and a minute's brisk walk brought him to a house. He paused for a moment before it and listened. From near at hand came a plaintive sound—like a whippoorwill calling its mate.

  Chapter X.

  The Debt

  Table of Contents

  Three steps led up to a verandah. Stranway mounted these, and, more by the sense of touch than sight, found the door and the bell. He rang the latter and waited.

  A quick step sounded from inside the house, the door opened on a dark hallway without vestige of light within, and a man's voice spoke brusquely:

  "Well?"

  "Does Mr. Herman Stolman live here?" Stranway asked.

  "Who are you?" demanded the voice sharply.

  "If Mr. Stolman doesn't live here, I don't know that it really matters who I am," responded Stranway, with well-simulated tartness. "But Larson's my name—Sam Larson."

  "Come in," said the voice instantly, and with a more friendly intonation. "I'm Stolman."

  Stranway stepped promptly into the hall, and the door was closed. The other's hand fell upon his arm, guiding him forward.

  Dark without, it was Egyptian blackness within—until suddenly, dazzled and half-blinded, blinking painfully, Stranway found himself standing on the threshold of a room whose door Stolman had thrown open. Lights seemed to dance everywhere before Stranway's eyes. It was a small room, but from the ceiling, from the corners, from the walls, glowed, not single lamps, but clusters of high-powered incandescents—it was beyond question the most brilliantly lighted room he had ever been in. He stood there rubbing his eyes for an instant, then he turned nonchalantly to Stolman.

  "Too bad you couldn't have shoved another light or two in here," he remarked facetiously.

  "It's a fad of mine," said Stolman shortly.

  Stranway's eyes, accustomed now to the glare, swept around the apartment. It was plainly furnished. There were a few chairs, and a table that stood just in front of an open fireplace where two huge logs crackled and blazed merrily—that was about all. The furniture was of the summer cottage variety—wicker. There was a window opposite the door, and Stranway noticed that the green roller shade was drawn down.

  "So you're Larson, eh?" Stolman had shut the door, and now faced Stranway, eyeing him from head to foot.

  "Sure—Larson," said Stranway absently, continuing to glance around the room.

  "Well?" Stolman threw out the word curtly, tentatively.

  "Eh?" inquired Stranway, as though still absorbed in his surroundings; then, with a little laugh: "Oh, sure! I forgot—I guess this is what you mean."

  He took the envelope addressed to Stolman from his pocket, and handed it to the other; and then, as Stolman opened it and began to read, Stranw
ay's eyes the first time, and now but for a bare second, played critically over the man. Stolman was well-built, about his, Stranway's, height, with black eyes, black hair, and a shrewd, thin, cunning, clean-shaven face.

  Stranway was again gazing with a puzzled expression at the extraordinary display of lights, when the other, with a quick movement, suddenly thrust the note back at him.

  "What's the signature on this paper?" snapped Stolman.

  Stranway's eyes lowered, met Stolman's, and then a slow smile crept to his lips.

  "Well," he drawled, "it depends on how you read it. Some would say it was Martin P. Adams, and some would say it was—Chuck MacAllister."

  "Sit down," said Stolman affably. He drew a chair up to the table with his back to the fireplace, and motioned Stranway to one opposite to him. He took a couple of cigars from his pocket, tossed one over to Stranway, bit off the end of his own leisurely, and tilted back his chair.

  Stranway as leisurely lighted his—and waited.

  "Had a letter from Chuck some time ago saying you were coming," said Stolman easily, when his cigar was well alight. "And I got that letter you wrote me three days ago from"—he leaned forward a little in his chair—"let's see, where was it you wrote that letter from?"

  Stranway was watching the blue spirals curl upward from the tip of his cigar.

  "Chicago," said he complacently.