The Window at the White Cat Read online

  CHAPTER VIII

  TOO LATE

  At nine o'clock that night things remained about the same. The manHunter had sent to investigate the neighborhood and the country justoutside of the town, came to the house about eight, and reported"nothing discovered." Miss Letitia went to bed early, and Margery tookher up-stairs.

  Hunter called me by telephone from town.

  "Can you take the nine-thirty up?" he asked. I looked at my watch.

  "Yes, I think so. Is there anything new?"

  "Not yet; there may be. Take a cab at the station and come to the cornerof Mulberry Street and Park Lane. You'd better dismiss your cab thereand wait for me."

  I sent word up-stairs by Bella, who was sitting in the kitchen, herheavy face sodden with grief, and taking my hat and raincoat--it wasraining a light spring drizzle--I hurried to the station. Intwenty-four minutes I was in the city, and perhaps twelve minutes moresaw me at the designated corner, with my cab driving away and the raindropping off the rim of my hat and splashing on my shoulders.

  I found a sort of refuge by standing under the wooden arch of a gate,and it occurred to me that, for all my years in the city, thisparticular neighborhood was altogether strange to me. Two blocks away,in any direction, I would have been in familiar territory again.

  Back of me a warehouse lifted six or seven gloomy stories to the sky.The gate I stood in was evidently the entrance to its yard, and in fact,some uncomfortable movement of mine just then struck the latch, andalmost precipitated me backward by its sudden opening. Beyond was a yardfull of shadowy wheels and packing cases; the street lights did notpenetrate there, and with an uneasy feeling that almost anything, inthis none too savory neighborhood, might be waiting there, I struck amatch and looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes after ten. Once aman turned the corner and came toward me, his head down, his longulster flapping around his legs. Confident that it was Hunter, I steppedout and touched him on the arm. He wheeled instantly, and in the lightwhich shone on his face, I saw my error.

  "Excuse me," I mumbled, "I mistook my man."

  He went on again without speaking, only pulling his soft hat down lowerover his face. I looked after him until he turned the next corner, and Iknew I had not been mistaken; it was Wardrop.

  The next minute Hunter appeared, from the same direction, and we walkedquickly together. I told him who the man just ahead had been, and henodded without surprise. But before we turned the next corner hestopped.

  "Did you ever hear of the White Cat?" he asked. "Little political club?"

  "Never."

  "I'm a member of it," he went on rapidly. "It's run by the city ring, orrather it runs itself. Be a good fellow while you're there, and keepyour eyes open. It's a queer joint."

  The corner we turned found us on a narrow, badly paved street. Thebroken windows of the warehouse still looked down on us, and across thestreet was an ice factory, with two deserted wagons standing along thecurb. As well as I could see for the darkness, a lumber yard stretchedbeyond the warehouse, its piles of boards giving off in the rain thearomatic odor of fresh pine.

  At a gate in the fence beyond the warehouse Hunter stopped. It was anordinary wooden gate and it opened with a thumb latch. Beyond stretcheda long, narrow, brick-paved alleyway, perhaps three feet wide, andlighted by the merest glimmer of a light ahead. Hunter went onregardless of puddles in the brick paving, and I stumbled after him. Aswe advanced, I could see that the light was a single electric bulb, hungover a second gate. While Hunter fumbled for a key in his pocket, I hadtime to see that this gate had a Yale lock, was provided, at the side,with an electric bell button, and had a letter slot cut in it.

  Hunter opened the gate and preceded me through it. The gate swung to andclicked behind me. After the gloom of the passageway, the smallbrick-paved yard seemed brilliant with lights. Two wires were strungits length, dotted with many electric lamps. In a corner a striped tentstood out in grotesque relief; it seemed to be empty, and the weatherwas an easy explanation. From the two-story house beyond there camesuddenly a burst of piano music and a none too steady masculine voice.Hunter turned to me, with his foot on the wooden steps.

  "Above everything else," he warned, "keep your temper. Nobody gives ahang in here whether you're the mayor of the town, the championpool-player of the first ward, or the roundsman on the beat."

  The door at the top of the steps was also Yale-locked. We stepped atonce into the kitchen, from which I imagined that the house faced onanother street, and that for obvious reasons only its rear entrance wasused. The kitchen was bright and clean; it was littered, however, withhalf-cut loaves of bread, glasses and empty bottles. Over the range aman in his shirt sleeves was giving his whole attention to a slice ofham, sizzling on a skillet, and at a table near-by a young fellow, withhis hair cut in a barber's oval over the back of his neck, wasspreading slices of bread and cheese with mustard.

  "How are you, Mr. Mayor?" Hunter said, as he shed his raincoat. "This isMr. Knox, the man who's engineering the _Star-Eagle_ fight."

  The man over the range wiped one greasy hand and held it out to me.

  "The Cat is purring a welcome," he said, indicating the frying ham. "Ifmy cooking turns out right I'll ask you to have some ham with me. Idon't know why in thunder it gets black in the middle and won't cookaround the edges."

  I recognized the mayor. He was a big fellow, handsome in a heavy way,and "Tommy" to every one who knew him. It seemed I was about to see mycity government at play.

  Hunter was thoroughly at home. He took my coat and his own and hung themsomewhere to dry. Then he went into a sort of pantry opening off thekitchen and came out with four bottles of beer.

  "We take care of ourselves here," he explained, as the newly barberedyouth washed some glasses. "If you want a sandwich, there is cooked hamin the refrigerator and cheese--if our friend at the sink has leftany."

  The boy looked up from his glasses. "It's rat-trap cheese, that stuff,"he growled.

  "The other ran out an hour ago and didn't come back," put in the mayor,grinning. "You can kill that with mustard, if it's too lively."

  "Get some cigars, will you?" Hunter asked me. "They're on a shelf in thepantry. I have my hands full."

  I went for the cigars, remembering to keep my eyes open. The pantry wasa small room: it contained an ice-box, stocked with drinkables, ham,eggs and butter. On shelves above were cards, cigars and liquors, andthere, too, I saw a box with an indorsement which showed the "honorsystem" of the Cat Club.

  "Sign checks and drop here," it read, and I thought about the old adageof honor among thieves and politicians.

  When I came out with the cigars Hunter was standing with a group of newarrivals; they included one of the city physicians, the director ofpublic charities and a judge of a local court. The latter, McFeely, alittle, thin Irishman, knew me and accosted me at once. The mayor wasbusy over the range, and was almost purple with heat and unwontedanxiety.

  When the three new-comers went up-stairs, instead of going into thegrill-room, I looked at Hunter.

  "Is this where the political game is played?" I asked.

  "Yes, if the political game is poker," he replied, and led the way intothe room which adjoined the kitchen.

  No one paid any attention to us. Bare tables, a wooden floor, and almostas many cuspidors as chairs, comprised the furniture of the long room.In one corner was a battered upright piano, and there were twofireplaces with old-fashioned mantels. Perhaps a dozen men were sittingaround, talking loudly, with much scraping of chairs on the bare floor.At one table they were throwing poker dice, but the rest were drinkingbeer and talking in a desultory way. At the piano a man with a redmustache was mimicking the sextette from _Lucia_ and a roar of applausemet us as we entered the room. Hunter led the way to a corner and putdown his bottles.

  "It's fairly quiet to-night," he said. "To-morrow's the bignight--Saturday."

  "What time do they close up?" I asked. In answer Hunter pointed to asign over the door. It was a card, neat
ly printed, and it said, "TheWhite Cat never sleeps."

  "There are only two rules here," he explained. "That is one, and theother is, 'If you get too noisy, and the patrol wagon comes, make thedriver take you home.'"

  The crowd was good-humored; it paid little or no attention to us, andwhen some one at the piano began to thump a waltz, Hunter, under coverof the noise, leaned over to me.

  "We traced Fleming here, through your corner-man and the cabby," he saidcarefully. "I haven't seen him, but it is a moral certainty he isskulking in one of the up-stairs rooms. His precious private secretaryis here, too."

  I glanced around the room, but no one was paying any attention to us.

  "I don't know Fleming by sight," the detective went on, "and thepictures we have of him were taken a good while ago, when he wore amustache. When he was in local politics, before he went to thelegislature, he practically owned this place, paying for favors withmembership tickets. A man could hide here for a year safely. The policenever come here, and a man's business is his own."

  "He is up-stairs now?"

  "Yes. There are four rooms up there for cards, and a bath-room. It's anold dwelling house. Would Fleming know you?"

  "No, but of course Wardrop would."

  As if in answer to my objection, Wardrop appeared at that moment. He randown the painted wooden stairs and hurried through the room withoutlooking to right or left. The piano kept on, and the men at the tableswere still engrossed with their glasses and one another. Wardrop wasvery pale; he bolted into a man at the door, and pushed him asidewithout ceremony.

  "You might go up now," Hunter said, rising. "I will see where the younggentleman is making for. Just open the door of the different roomsup-stairs, look around for Fleming, and if any one notices you, ask ifAl Hunter is there. That will let you out."

  He left me then, and after waiting perhaps a minute, I went up-stairsalone. The second floor was the ordinary upper story of a small dwellinghouse. The doors were closed, but loud talking, smoke, and the rattle ofchips floated out through open transoms. From below the noise of thepiano came up the staircase, unmelodious but rhythmical, and from thestreet on which the house faced an automobile was starting its engine,with a series of shot-like explosions.

  The noise was confusing, disconcerting. I opened two doors, to find onlythe usual poker table, with the winners sitting quietly, their cardsbunched in the palms of their hands, and the losers, growing morevoluble as the night went on, buying chips recklessly, drinking morethan they should. The atmosphere was reeking with smoke.

  The third door I opened was that of a dingy bath-room, with a zinc tuband a slovenly wash-stand. The next, however, was different. The lightstreamed out through the transom as in the other rooms, but there was nonoise from within. With my hand on the door, I hesitated--then, withHunter's injunction ringing in my ears, I opened it and looked in.

  A breath of cool night air from an open window met me. There was nonoise, no smoke, no sour odor of stale beer. A table had been drawn tothe center of the small room, and was littered with papers, pen and ink.At one corner was a tray, containing the remnants of a meal; a pillowand a pair of blankets on a couch at one side showed the room had beenserving as a bedchamber.

  But none of these things caught my eye at first. At the table, leaningforward, his head on his arms, was a man. I coughed, and receiving noanswer, stepped into the room.

  "I beg your pardon," I said, "but I am looking, for--"

  Then the truth burst on me, overwhelmed me. A thin stream was spreadingover the papers on the table, moving slowly, sluggishly, as is the waywith blood when the heart pump is stopped. I hurried over and raised theheavy, wobbling, gray head. It was Allan Fleming and he had been shotthrough the forehead.