The Spectacles of Mr. Cagliostro Read online

  And now came the sinister thing of the whole unexplainable proceeding. For the old man reached down once more beneath him and placed upon the table in front of him an immense globular-shaped thing of black — cast-iron, it must have been — from a tiny hole in which protruded a long snakelike piece of cord. He held it up in full view, talking rapidly, and pointing first at one position of the invisible table, and then at another. As though to prove an argument he had made, he struck a match and lighted the cord. It burned with a spluttering motion, throwing out bright sparks, and the old man made a gesture of his hand as though to quell any alarm. He suddenly snuffed it out with a violent pinch of his fingers, and turning to the placard which had evidently drawn the affirmative ballot and which stood still on the table, he pointed first to the bomb — for bomb undoubtedly it was — and then to the sign, and then to the invisible assemblage.

  It was at this juncture that Middleton awoke to the fact that he was viewing this sinister drama through tinted lenses that of necessity diminished his acuity of vision. He dropped his head forward hastily, tugging at the clumsy leaden bows that encircled his ears, and snatching off the antique spectacles with a jerk once more leaned forward in the darkness to press his very nose to the pane in front of him.

  But he was to see no more. For something had happened in that brief interval in which he had had to remove his gaze from that diabolical scene across the way. Either someone had risen suddenly and extinguished the lights in alarm, or else someone had drawn down the shade to insure absolute privacy to the meeting that was being held. At least, Middleton stood once more in stygian darkness, with not so much as a fine rectangle of light remaining to indicate where a moment before a window had been open and exposed. He was to see no more.

  But, standing in the dark, his heart beating just a bit rapidly from the shock of what he had seen, Middleton began to realise now the true meaning of what he had viewed. A meeting of radicals of the worst type — men almost insane in their anarchical proclivities — men of the type which had supposedly passed from civilised society — had decreed this night that of several individuals, each of whom were connected with vast fortunes, one must die by the bomb. And that one — Jerry Middleton groaned at the very irony of it — had not and could not receive even a thousandth part of the fortune with which he was connected.

  Lucky, lucky the night, though, he told himself grimly, that he had come to this house even for the reprehensible purpose for which he had. For he had stumbled upon a conspiracy which might have cost him his life; a conspiracy which the American police might never have unearthed; a plot whose meshes might at any rate have passed from him to others of America’s wealthy men before it should be crushed to powerlessness.

  He dropped the leaden spectacles into his right hand coat pocket, and by means of lighted matches made his way forth to the front door of the old house. Letting himself out, he hurried down the steps to the deserted street. His last look at the clock ticking away had told him that the time was eight-fifteen. He had three-quarters of an hour yet to cover the five blocks to St. Andrew’s Church; so he had plenty of time in which to hurry as fast as his legs would carry him down to the little cigar store that he had glimpsed as he dismounted from the State Street car at Kinzie Street.

  The place was deserted, and a sleepy clerk nodding back of the counter became galvanised into sudden terror-stricken alertness as he sprang trembling to his feet. Perhaps he suspected a hold-up — perhaps he didn’t know what to make of such a sudden appearance of such a strange apparition as this hairy, woebegone, tattered hobo.

  “Got a telephone in this place?” was Middleton’s instant query. “I want you to call the police up — the nearest police station — at once. And give them a message. I can’t wait — must go — and it’s something that’s got to be rushed through at once. Will you do that?”

  The clerk looked as though talking to the police was one thing which at this moment while the store was devoid of any protection was exactly the thing he could do with the greatest of ease. He nodded vehemently.

  “Tell them this,” said Middleton hastily, catching the other’s assent. “Tell them that in a house one number east of the old cottage back there at No. 44, Kinzie Street, somewhere in the back, a group of anarchists have just held a meeting and have decided to assassinate Jerome H. Middleton of Chicago. They have a bomb and have already drawn lots for John D. Rockefeller and Henry Ford. Tell them if they hurry they can capture the whole gang.”

  The cigar store clerk leaned across the counter with dilated eyes. “The devil you say! Why — why — say — you’re a detective, ain’t you. I knew it the minute you come in here.” But Middleton was already clear to the door, his hand on its knob, waiting only to get the other’s verbal corroboration of the data. The clerk nodded violently. “Now — wait. Have I got you right? Group o’ anarchists holding meeting in rear of house one number east o’ No. 44, that old cottage? Arranged to assassinate Jerome H. Middleton of Chic — why, say, that’s the fellow who was in the papers — the son of old Digby Middleton, the medicine man — sure, I get you. Now say, where can you be found later?”

  “I’ll come to the police myself later to-night after they round up this gang and tell my complete story,” was Middleton’s hurried response. The clock on the wall ticked inexorably away. “Must go now. Important business. Don’t forget. Telephone immediately.” And the last thing he saw as he hurried east on Kinzie Street was the clerk raising the receiver of a telephone in the back room and rapidly asking for a number.

  He hurried along, passing entirely Ohio Street, at whose intersection with the boulevard St. Andrew’s Church stood, and circled east only at the street beyond. This manœuvre brought him exactly to a point which he and Fortescue had picked out that Sunday ten days back: a point where a dark alley, opening into an equally dark street, gave ingress to a paved passageway further on, that in turn led one to a tiny, inconspicious doorway in the side of the church provided for churchwardens and members of the clergy. Down the alley he crept hurriedly. He reached the little door with its arched monastic top. Had Fortescue arranged to have it open? And if so, was it open?

  As he tried the little door, it swung freely in, and stepping gingerly inside he found himself in a great vaulted church at a point about the middle of one side. The entire place was in a semi-gloom, and there were many people seated in pews ahead of him with backs turned to him. A subdued buzz of conversation seemed to match, in its intensity, the lowness of the lights. Keeping his head well down he crept noiselessly into an empty pew. His raincoat was still buttoned about him, and he was quite alone with only a myriad of well-tailored backs far up in front of him. He was well to the side and appreciably to the rear of what was going to constitute the audience to this affair, for which he felt exceedingly thankful; but even as he sat where he was, he found that the carpeted aisles were resounding steadily to the steps of groups of new visitors, and that guests were coming steadily in by dozens.

  But at last the influx of newcomers died down. Not altogether did he escape, sitting in lonely detachment, the scrutiny of more than one occupant of that dignified assemblage. But through it all Jerry Middleton remained immobile, quiet, well-mannered, well-behaved, and if there were those who wondered at the explanation of his presence, he left it to them to continue to wonder. And when suddenly the great electric chandeliers of the church flared into brilliant radiance, the buzz of conversation rose to tremendous pitch, and a great organ burst forth into the deep pealing tones of some classical composition, Middleton knew instinctively that the carriages of the bride and groom had arrived outside; that the event of the evening was now about to transpire, and that no longer was he of interest to anyone there.

  As the bridal party came up the aisle, he found occasion to survey it curiously from his isolated position. The music died away entirely; a deathly silence filled the air; the minister, in his robes, came forth from a tiny door back of the altar. Whereupon followed various ceremonial f
orms that were not altogether understandable to Middleton, but he suddenly stiffened up as he realised that it was in these preliminaries that the fateful words were to come which meant that he was to act the part of a scoundrel.

  And then came the fateful words — so suddenly that they almost caught him unawares.

  “Therefore,” intoned the clergyman, “if any can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together let him now disclose it or else for ever hereafter hold his peace.”

  It was evident by the very mechanical drone of his words that the ecclesiastic had said the same thing thousands of times, and he reached for his Bible automatically as he had no doubt also done thousands of times before.

  But this was the thousand-and-first time! And this was not to be like those other times. For Jerry Middleton arose in his seat. In that brief instant he had clapped on his head that dingy, greasy felt hat and he had thrown off the raincoat entirely. And there, under the light of one of the great chandeliers, he stood, an abject, miserable, woebegone specimen of dilapidated humanity, truly the spectre at the feast.

  “I forbid the marriage,” he cried in a loud voice. “I am the affianced husband of Pamela Martindale. I am Jerome Herbert Middleton. I — I forbid the marriage!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  A FREE RIDE

  IT seemed to Jerry Middleton that there was a silence following his declaration so profound that if a pin had dropped it would have sounded like a cannon-shot. Never had he heard such a silence in his life. It was all-engulfing, smothering. And he wondered vaguely what he was to do next. But he had eyes only for one individual. That was Pamela Martindale herself.

  At his clear announcement, coming in the silence of the church like a bolt from the sky, she had spun round in her place near the altar — and had fastened horrified eyes on the source of the interruption. And thus she had remained, horrified, turned to marble, for one long half-minute, when she suddenly screamed — then swayed — and to Middleton’s consternation fainted dead away in the arms of Carleton van Ware who was nearest to her. And as he tried to collect himself from the shock of what he had really done, he was conscious that half a thousand people had risen to their feet, that there were cries of men, the high-pitched sounds of women talking excitedly; and as he turned his head bewilderingly toward the back of the church from whence he knew only too well ushers were going to run, a tremendous flash that blinded every backward turned face as well as his own, proved that one newspaper camera-man had come to life at a psychological moment. As though this was a signal for others, it was followed by a second huge flash — then a third. The audience was now in an uproar — confused not only by what had happened but startled by the cannon-like “boom” of the big flashlights. About him women were screaming, wailing hysterically, in more than one spot. And as he sheepishly rubbed from his own eyes the blinding dazzle of the flashlights, Middleton found himself sandwiched between a man in a dress-suit and white gloves on one side, and two red-faced burly police officers, who had evidently been brought on the run from the outside of the church.

  “Get him out of here quick,” the dress-suited man in the white gloves was saying. “Here — out this side door is the quickest.” And like a chip swept along by a swift current, but propelled in reality by a pair of powerful hands on each of his upper arms, Middleton found himself being rushed out the very door through which he had come a short while before., In this same manner he was rushed, shoved, dragged, but always unprotestingly on his part, forward to the boulevard which ran past the front of the church, and here one of his two blue-coated captors, puffing a bit, faced him. The pair were joined almost immediately by the dress-suited man who had so quickly effected his removal.

  “Say,” said one of the Irish policemen, “they say you ris’ up in church and tried to stop th’ weddin’.” Not by an iota did the officer’s grip on Middleton’s arm relax. “Now what f’r ye done thot, my mon? Don’t ye know ye’ve broken the p’ce?” He surveyed his captive curiously.

  Middleton, from the tail of his eye, saw the other of his two blue-coated captors telephoning into a blue box mounted on a post on the corner fifty feet ofl, and he surmised that he was shortly going to have a ride in an American patrol-wagon.

  “Well, why shouldn’t I, Pat?” he inquired calmly. “You see I happen to be Jerome Herbert Middleton — I happen to be the ex-fiance of Miss Martindale — and I happened to forbid the marriage. And there you are. You’ll find if you lock me up, Pat, that you’ve locked up a perfectly innocent criminal. Go carefully, Pat. I might sue you for false arrest.”

  The bluecoat shook his head, more surprised than ever. But his grip did not loosen. “Faith, an’ I think ye’re a pickpocket ‘r so’thin’, that’s w’at I think. An’ did ye figger ye could pinch a few pokes after ye giv’ that shout?”

  Even if Middleton had been sufficiently versed in the cant of American police and American criminals to comprehend the significance of “pinching a poke” he could not have replied to this last query, for by this time a number of the men from inside the church had joined the little knot on the corner, and a crowd from off the boulevard was gathering rapidly, so much so that his one captor had to hold them back by drawing his club. But then a welcome interruption took place. Evidently the nearest police-station had been but a few blocks away, for the interruption consisted of a blue auto-patrol that puffed and snorted up to the corner within exactly three minutes after the call. Unceremoniously Middleton was shoved down an aisle composed of two walls of peering human faces, his captor aided by three bluecoats who beat back the crowd, and he sighed with relief as he realised that the ugly part of his earning of that painful ten thousand dollars was now over for good.

  The nearest police-station proved to be exactly two blocks distant, but evidently held an inflexible rule that the wagon should be called out for all arrests of whatsoever nature. It was a brand new little station — evidently built to take care of the police activities that had evolved with the springing into existence of a new commercial district — and chiselled in the keystone over its entrance were the words: “North-Central Police Headquarters.” Middleton looked curiously about him after being first bidden gruffly to step down from the patrol, and then marched inside of the building. A huge desk with grating, piled high with papers, showed the location evidently of a commanding officer, but no commanding officer was in evidence; and after his captors had craned their necks in all directions, seeking that individual, Middleton found himself marched down a narrow stairway, all the contents of his clothing, from his matchbox to the pair of leaden spectacles in his right hand coat pocket, taken boldly away from him for official scrutiny, and thrust into an iron caged cubbyhole that was one of eight in a row along a whitewashed corridor. A moment later he heard the door clang to upon him.

  He settled himself down on the wooden bench that the cell provided, and, crossing his legs, fell to humming a little tune. Upstairs he heard considerable talking, the frequent striking of matches, and then to his surprise a blue-clad turnkey came with jangling keys and conducted him back upstairs again. This time he was taken into a large room where a sergeant, white-haired and red-faced — evidently he of the desk outside — sat at a table. With him, talking excitedly, was the dress-suited man with white gloves who had evidently been either door-tender or head usher at the church that night, and the one policeman who had piloted Middleton from the church to the station-house. The man behind the table looked Middleton quizzically over, his eyes resting in turn on the latter’s face, his hat, his raiment and his shoes, thence to his face again. He spoke.

  “Well, my man, what did you want to start that rumpus for over there in the church to-night? Didn’t you know you’d draw about thirty days for that?”

  “I’m afraid not,” pronounced Middleton coolly. “In the first place I was a quiet spectator at the wedding, as I think this gentleman here will testify. And, considering that I am Jerome Herbert Middleton and that some few weeks ago my own engagement to M
iss Martindale was published in your Chicago papers — well — I think the law allows me to enter at least a verbal protest against this marriage. Ecclesiastical law does, at any rate.”

  The commanding officer heard Middleton through with a most bewildered look in his eyes. And the patrolman put in a hasty remark;

  “Sergeant Gearty, beggin’ your pardon — but he told us all the same story on the outside. Said he was engaged hisself to Miss Martindale. Didn’t seem to be ashamed no way, but acted like he seemed to think he was quite in his rights.”

  Gearty’s eyes came together in slits. He nodded brusquely to a chair. “Sit down there. What’s your name?”

  Middleton sat down. “Jerome Middleton,” he said quietly, “as I stated once before. Jerome Herbert Middleton — if you want the entire name.”

  “Come, come now. No fooling. I want your right name. Fool with me, my man, and you’ll find yourself in the Bridewell.”

  Middleton sighed. He perceived that in these habiliments he wasn’t a very convincing talker. He spoke. “I suggest that you call up Mr. Luther Fortescue, general manager of the Digby Middleton properties. He lives on Sheridan Road near Eastwood. Or, if you prefer, call my own quarters on Astor Street, and speak to either one of my two servants. You’ll find that number in the directory under my father’s name, Digby Middleton.”

  Gearty’s eyes seemed to contract into even finer slits than before. They seemed to be trying to pierce this enigma in rags. Whereupon Middleton again spoke.

  “All right,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve got my credentials. Now let’s get over to more important business. Did you round up that gang of anarchists that were meeting to-night over on Kinzie Street near here?”

  Gearty leaped to his feet in amazement. “Are you the fellow who had that message ‘phoned in?”

  “I am the one — certainly,” replied Middleton. “At least I asked a certain clerk in a certain tobacco shop to telephone it in.”