The Red Ledger

by Frank L. Packard

  It was a metal box, with handles at either end, to one of which a key was fastened with twisted wire. I detached the key, and opened the box. On top, in a shallow tray, lay a number of papers that were neatly folded and held together by an elastic band. I took these out, opened them one by one between dips at the oars—and, shaking my head, put them back again. They were in a foreign language, in foreign script. They meant nothing to me. And then I lifted out the tray—and, with a startled exclamation, my hands trembling so that I could scarcely hold the box, I sat there staring at its contents. It was full of money—money! Not foreign money—American money, in bills. A great deal of it! I did not know how much. But a great deal! All the box would hold! And the bills were of large denominations.

  I replaced the tray, closed the box, locked it, and put the key in my pocket. There was no need to worry about the little one any more.

  I turned in my seat again to get the bearing of the houses on the point. The waves would help me now, and, by edging in a little to the right, I was sure I could make a landing at that spot. And then I rowed as fast as my strength would let me.

  Half an hour later, the boat grated on the shore, and, with the child and the box in my arms, I staggered toward the nearest house.

  The manuscript ended abruptly at this point.

  Stranway laid the faded sheets down on the table. His premonition of coming ill, rather than being in any way allayed, was now weighing more heavily upon him than ever. To-morrow night, Charlebois had said in his note. What would happen to-morrow night? The manuscript breathed in every line the promise of a sequel no less grim than the story of that other night nineteen years ago!

  Chapter XXVII.

  All But One

  Table of Contents

  It was nine o'clock the next evening as Stranway, entering the Red Room, halted abruptly at the threshold and stared in a startled way, not at the little old gentleman of Dominic Court, who, dressed as he always was when indoors, in red velvet jacket and skull-cap with bobbing tassel, sat at his accustomed place at the antique, mahogany desk, but at the two objects which lay there on the desk itself. Still full of the story contained in the little old gentleman's manuscript, he had come here to-night more disturbed and strangely expectant than he could ever remember having been in the countless times he had entered this room before, and he had no need to be told that one of the objects now riveting his attention was the metal box described in Charlebois' manuscript; but it was the other object that held him far the more startled, amazed, and, in a sense, fascinated. For the first time in a year the Red Ledger was here in the Red Room again! He had not seen it in all that time. And now, its three great hasps unlocked, it lay open on the desk in front of Charlebois.

  The little old gentleman's quiet voice broke the silence.

  "Ah, my boy," he said with a grave smile, "you are surprised to see the Red Ledger back here again, and you are wondering why it has ever been away? And this box here—you recognise it, do you not, as the one you read about last night? All this, however, will be made clear to you presently. As I told you in my note, I have strange things to say to you to-night. And first of all"—there was a sudden quiver in his voice as, almost caressingly it seemed, he laid his hand on the Red Ledger's open page—"I must say this to you: To-night, unless we meet with misfortune, this book will be closed forever."

  For a moment Stranway neither moved nor spoke. It seemed as though he had been struck a sudden blow that confused his brain. The Red Ledger closed forever! He could not have heard aright! There must be some mistake! Why, his life, Charlebois' life, the lives of a hundred others were bound up, wrapped up indissolvably in that volume with its strange and singular accounts!

  "Closed—forever?" The words came from him finally in a low, uncertain, almost self-questioning way.

  Charlebois rose quietly from his seat.

  "Come closer!" he said—and taking the pages of the Red Ledger in his hand, he allowed them to flutter slowly through his fingers. "You see, do you not? And this explains the reason why the Red Ledger has not been here during the last year—that in my own privacy I might, as it were, make a final audit of my accounts." He paused, and into the steel-blue eyes there came a shadow of yearning and wistfulness. "I think you will understand. I wanted to study long and carefully over each entry to make sure that I had paid to the best of my ability, and that there remained for me no more to do."

  Stranway stared at the fluttering pages, a pang at his heart. No; there was no mistake. Each page that he saw was neatly ruled with long, diagonal, red balance lines.

  "Yes; I see," he said numbly. "It is finished."

  The little old gentleman shook his head.

  "All but one," he said, with a sudden grimness creeping into his voice, as he laid his hand again on an open page before him. "All but this one here. And so there is still to-night—and this last account." Then brightly, with a smile lighting up his fine old face: "But you must not take it to heart, my boy. There should be joy in the knowledge of work well done—not sadness or regret—the joy of accomplishment."

  "Theoretically—perhaps," admitted Stranway without enthusiasm. He waved his hand around the familiar surroundings. "And all this—is to go?" he asked monotonously.

  "Not in a day," Charlebois answered gently. "There will still be much to do—many loose threads to tie—annuities to arrange for those who have served us so faithfully in the organisation, a task that in itself is not a light one, for there are many on our rolls. No; there is still much to do, very much to do, so many details that will demand most careful attention—and you must help me, my boy. You are my son, you know, and I am an old man. You must help me now to set my house in order, for when I am gone it will all belong to you, and——"

  "Don't speak like that," Stranway broke in, his words choking a little in his throat. "You have many, many years, please God, ahead of you. Indeed, that is the one thing that makes me glad all this is at an end—the danger you have run. For years you have done nothing but take risks; again and again your life has been attempted, and there has been neither day nor hour in all that time when you were free or safe from possibility of attack. You know how often I have pleaded with you to leave all active work to others, to me—and you would not. But you will now—and so I am glad that the Red Ledger is to be 'closed forever,' that you are safe, that there is an end to the danger that has always hung over you."

  Charlebois smiled strangely.

  "That might be true—to-morrow," he said.

  "To-morrow?" repeated Stranway. "What do you mean?"

  "There is still—the last account—to-night." Charlebois' voice was low, distrait, almost as though he were speaking to himself—and then, quite abruptly, he turned from the desk and paced twice the length of the room and back again. "I am in an unusual mood to-night, my boy," he said slowly, as he halted again before Stranway. "But after all, perhaps, it is easily accounted for. For many years this thing has been a living menace to more lives than one—to mine and to others. It is the account that knew its inception in the events of that night which I described in the manuscript I gave you to read. It began in death, as you now know, and if I am disquieted and anxious to-night as it approaches culmination, I——"

  Stranway leaned suddenly forward and caught the little old gentleman's arms.

  "You have felt it, too!" he exclaimed. "It has been with me all yesterday, and all to-day, and I do not like it. I do not like it," he repeated, drawing back his hand and sweeping it outward in an impulsive gesture. "This thing to-night, whatever it is—this last account—why not put it off until——"

  "Nonsense!" interrupted the little old gentleman crisply. "We are not children; nor, I trust, childishly superstitious. Let us try to forget such thoughts." He shook his shoulders as though literally to unburden himself of a load upon them, and smiled. Then he stepped back to the desk, pushed the Red Ledger, still open, a little to one side, drew the metal box toward him, took a key from his pocket, and, sitting do
wn, motioned toward another chair in the corner. "Bring that armchair here to this side of the desk, and sit down beside me," he said. "I have much to say to you, my boy. And much," he added significantly, "that will interest you vitally."

  At the last words, Stranway's eyes, that had been resting curiously on the box, swept quickly, questioningly, to the little old gentleman's face.

  Charlebois smiled a little tolerantly, and motioned again toward the chair.

  More perplexed and disturbed than ever, for Charlebois was far from his usual self to-night and the little old gentleman's manner worried him, Stranway started toward the chair—but halfway across the floor he came to a standstill with a sudden jerk.

  What was that?

  Breaking the silence of the room, for his own footsteps had been deadened by the heavy rug, there had come a quick, jumbled medley of strange little sounds: a sharp tap that mingled instantly with a curious tinkle, and then again with a low, whistling purr. Instinctively Stranway's eyes lifted to the window in front of him that, facing the desk, opened on the courtyard—and a dawning horror crept into them.

  It was only for a second, no more, that his eyes held upon the window-pane, but in that brief instant he seemed to live for countless hours. There was a round hole in the glass, perfectly round, in size a little more than half the diameter of a dime, and the glass around the edges, though still holding together, was shattered into innumerable spidery, cobwebby fractures.

  Only a second it had been, no more—but he knew. With a cry like a wounded animal, in which bitterness, rage and grief struggled for the mastery, he turned and leaped for the desk. In a huddled posture, head and shoulders hanging limply over one side of the chair, the tasselled cap upon the floor, Charlebois was like one already dead. Frantically, Stranway caught the little old gentleman up in his arms and called his name. There was no answer. He felt desperately for the heart beat, caught it very faintly—and mad relief swept over him. There was a chance yet—at least a chance!

  Tenderly, he laid Charlebois back, and, reaching for one of a series of buttons on the desk, pressed it violently twice in quick succession—like the dispatchers' "life and death" call, it was the emergency signal of the organisation that reached every room in each of the four houses simultaneously, reached with its imperative summons every member of the organisation who was anywhere within the walls of that unassuming little row of dwellings. Then he sprang for the window, and, oblivious of the possibility of attack upon himself, threw it open, and leaned out.

  It was dark—he could see nothing. There was no sound save the rumble of traffic and the clang of trolley bells from near-by Sixth Avenue. He drew back from the window, and, his face drawn and set, ran again to Charlebois' side.

  Steps were echoing through the halls and rooms, coming on at top speed. The glass-panelled door burst open, the red-silken portière was wrenched aside—and, headed by Pierre Verot, a little group of seven or eight men rushed into the room. For an instant there was turmoil: a cry from one; a savage imprecation from the full heart of another—and then there fell a solemn, breathless hush.

  Stranway had raised his hand; and, in complete command of himself, his brain alert and stimulated by the cold fury that was upon him, his words come now like trickling drops of ice water:

  "He is alive yet. I do not know what his chances are. The bullet came through the window there from an air-gun, or a weapon that had a silencer—I heard no report. Sewell, telephone the doctor—get him here without an instant's delay!"

  A man detached himself from the group, and rushed from the room.

  "Rainier," Stranway went on, "take everybody available and search the Court, and surroundings. Don't let the roof of that storage building escape you. The shot might very easily have come from there. And see that a general alarm is sent out to every member of the organisation in the city. If it becomes necessary we will have to notify the police, but in the meantime we do not want any publicity if we can help it. Verot, get a couch, bandages, hot water and brandy in here at once!"

  There was a rush of feet again—and, like hounds with leashes slipped, the men were gone.

  Charlebois stirred for the first time and his lips moved. Stranway, supporting the little old gentleman in his arms, bent down his head to catch the words. The other's mind was wandering.

  "The light is gone," Charlebois muttered. "The light in the window is gone. Let me in! For pity's sake, let me in! They're shooting through the window! Why do they always shoot through the window? Get the boat off! They're on the bank! I can't pull back—I'm not strong enough. The boat's too heavy! I can't pull back, I tell you! I'll have to run before the storm—I'll—have—to——" His voice trailed off into nothingness.

  A blinding mist filmed Stranway's eyes. Charlebois was living again that night of nineteen years ago—but to Stranway came thoughts and memories of more recent years, the years that embraced his association with the other, each seeming to bring this form in his arms more intimately near and necessary to him. He crushed them back. There would be time, too much of it, perhaps, for that later! Now, he must keep his brain and mind free and centred upon the present.

  Verot and another man brought in a couch. They laid Charlebois upon it, and Stranway turned back the red velvet smoking jacket, exposing a constantly spreading crimson stain on the right side of the white shirt beneath. This latter he cut away, and began to staunch the flow of blood as best he could.

  "Give him a little brandy, Verot—a teaspoonful," he directed tersely.

  The minutes dragged by. Stranway, with ever increasing fear, continued steadily, but unavailingly, in his efforts to stop the flow of blood; while, at his nod, Verot, from time to time, administered the stimulant in small quantities.

  "Give him more," Stranway ordered desperately at last.

  Verot obeyed—and this time with some visible effect. Charlebois' eyes opened, fixed on Stranway—and a wan smile hovered over the white lips.

  Some one entered the room, stepped quickly to the couch, and, with a single rapid motion, Stranway found himself brushed aside as the other dropped to his knees, and delved into the contents of a small black satchel. It was Dr. Damon, Charlebois' physician.

  A glance, a short nod of greeting Stranway gave the doctor, and then his eyes fastened once more upon Charlebois. There was something in the little old gentleman's face that had not been there a moment ago—a pitiful struggle for consciousness, and wild anxiety in the steel-blue eyes.

  And then, suddenly, Charlebois jerked himself up on his elbow.

  "My boy, my boy!" he gasped. "Go—go at once! For God's sake, go this instant! There is another life in peril—go to—Flint—the——" He strove desperately for another word—and dropped back again unconscious.

  Stranway, white to the lips, grasped the doctor's arm.

  "Will he live?" he asked feverishly. "Is there any chance?"

  "I do not know," the doctor answered, without lifting his head. "I have not seen the wound yet. But, in any case, you can do no good here, and——"

  "Yes," Stranway broke in hoarsely; "I understand." Everything, all, seemed bound up in the stricken form before him, and his heart cried out within him not to leave the other; but dominating inclination, dominating his natural feelings, was that desperate, frantic appeal—an appeal so urgent that it had possibly cost Charlebois his chance of life to make it. He turned to Verot. "Flint—where is Flint?" he demanded, trying to steady his voice.

  "At the garage," Verot answered.

  "Phone him, then, that I am coming at once, and tell him to be ready for me," Stranway ordered hurriedly. "That will save time."

  Verot instantly left the room.

  Stranway's hand fell again on the doctor's arm. This time the doctor looked up, and for an instant the men's eyes held each other's in a long look, then Stranway's fingers closed in a fierce, hard pressure, fell away, and, with a last quick-flung glance at the little old gentleman, he stepped to the door. But here, suddenly, he turned, and ra
n back to the desk. That "last account," which so far he had not seen, held of course the key to Charlebois' appeal! He bent over the Red Ledger, still open at the page where the little old gentleman had left it. A single name was written at the top: "Kyrloff." A single word comprised a credit entry: "Sanctuary."

  It told him little. But it seemed to burn into his brain, and scream out at him sardonically, as he ran back to the door. Sanctuary! Sanctuary—and Charlebois struck down without an instant's warning! There was something cruel in its mockery; something that seemed deliberate in its attempt to outrage at the expense of the man who had written it, that kindly, hallowed word.

  Somewhere in one of the halls, as he raced along, Stranway picked up a cap. A dark form here and there, as he traversed the Court, rose suddenly before him as though to block his way—and, recognising him, drew back. He dashed through the lane, and turned into Sixth Avenue—the garage was just around the corner, two blocks south. Here, on the avenue, that he might not attract attention, he dropped into a walk. After all, Flint would require a few minutes to get out a car—and it must be that a car was required, else Flint, who nearly always acted as chauffeur for the little old gentleman, would almost certainly not have been on Charlebois' mind.

  He reached his corner and, on the run again, swung west around it. A big touring car was standing at the curb, with Flint in the driver's seat. Stranway sprang in beside the other.

  "Go on—quick!" he panted.

  The car leaped forward. From the wheel, Flint flung an inquiring glance at Stranway.

  "Where to?" he asked.

  Stranway strained forward in his seat, and stared in sudden dismay into Flint's face.

  "Good God, don't you know?" he gasped.

  The car slowed, and, almost humanly it seemed, poked its nose in a puzzled, bewildered way into the traffic of Sixth Avenue.

  Flint shook his head.

  "Does the name of Kyrloff help any?" demanded Stranway tensely.