CHAPTER IV.
MITSUI DISAPPEARS
IF I had not possessed Mitsui's word for the fact that the artist, Hoffman, was a friend who could be trusted, I would have put him down as an enemy. Throughout the next hour he spent with me, telling the story of New Zealand wool growing, he never warmed up one degree. Always his dark eyes seemed rather to glare at me, and his lips to wear a half sneer.
I was at a loss to account for his attitude, for though I disliked his pert mustache and dandified air, I saw he was far from effeminate. His shoulders maintained a straight line of leanness, even when he slouched in the heavy leather chair opposite me, and his slim fingers were quiet. I make it a rule always to take any man seriously who has no little nervous mannerisms such as rubbing his hands, biting his nails, or pulling at his mustache. The absence of these signs means that his nerve is good.
He performed the task I expected of him with thoroughness. For all I knew, there might be more to sheep raising than he told me in that sixty minutes, but the same amount of information would have taken me weeks to unearth and understand, working in a library. At the end of his discourse he branched out, describing Auckland, its thoroughfares and its clubs, even assigning me a certain town mansion on Shellendale Avenue, and granting me membership in two of the more exclusive clubs.
“This is just like a travelogue,” I remarked when he stopped to light a fresh cigarette. “One would be led to suspect that you knew New Zealand.”
“Yes. Lived in the same house I have described, belonged to the same clubs—even had something of an interest in raising the same sheep. Ought to know it. The two years cost me thirty thousand dollars. Because I know it so well is the reason why you have been given this character.”
“Oh! Selwyn Trask, then, might just as well have come from Egypt?”
He inclined his head affirmatively, but before he could answer, a light knock sounded on the door to the corridor. With the same quickness he might have exhibited had he been on his mark and straining for the pistol report, Hoffman was on his feet and out of the room before I could swing my legs from the chair.
When I arrived at the door of the antechamber I just saw him finish scribbling a message on a calling card. He handed this to the boy and took inside a large bundle in exchange.
“Try these on and see if they will fit. They're probably a little out of date, but they'll do until your other clothes come from the tailor.” He tossed the package to me.
Cutting the strings with my pocket knife, I undid the wrappings. On top, swathed in tissue paper, lay six dress collars, several ties in their individual cases, two pairs of white kid gloves, and a dress vest. From the pocket of the latter hung a silk watch cord. A dress hat, shoes, a neatly folded full-dress suit, and tuxedo coat completed the contents of the other three boxes.
“Rather taking a chance on fit,” I observed doubtfully, eying the outfit. “If friend 'J. M.' missed a chance to try out my waist with a tape measure these trousers probably will fit well—around the shoulders. I use only a twenty-six belt.”
“Try them,” advised Hoffman laconically. I saw no reason for not obeying, so took the clothes across the hall into the bedchamber.
“If you'll dress,” Hoffman called after me, “we'll go out for a little while. Make it 'tuck.' There'll be no ladies.”
When I entered the room I received the shock of my life. Mitsui was gone! The window was still open three inches, the radiator was turned off just as I left it, but the handcuffs, with one of each pair opened, were hanging to the pipes!
Not knowing just what significance this might have, I ran back and communicated the startling news to Hoffman.
“The devil!” he exclaimed, starting up and crossing to examine the evidence for himself. In silence he unlocked the cuffs and turned them over in his hands. I saw that they were of prodigious strength, locking with six bars. No human being could have shed them unaided.
“What's the verdict?” I asked after five minutes of silence.
Hoffman straightened abruptly, shrugging his shoulders. “You know as much as I,” he retorted, a certain bitterness in his tone. “In this business, though, nothing ought to surprise one.” The last seemed almost soliloquy. “It won't interfere with our little outing at all, though,” he added, regaining his normal tone.
While I was dressing the grim thought occurred to me that I was going to enjoy earning my thousand a month once I could get down to cases with all this hocus-pocus and unexplained happening. Though I had not yet left my suite, several odd and seemingly opposed events occurred. When I could hold the threads in hand I felt sure none of the handcuffs I locked would come open mysteriously.
A strange sense of familiarity mocked me as I donned the pair of shoes provided for me. They fitted like gloves, and yet I knew they were not unlike mine. I did not consider the matter seriously at the moment, for 8-C feet are not in the least rare.
Whoever picked out the outfit for me, however, had exercised the same intelligence in respect to all the articles. The shirt, collars, trousers, and vest all fitted, provided I did not stand too straight. The man who had owned them previously evidently had not been through the course of sprouts at Patricksbourne airdome as I had done.
It was not so difficult for me to slouch a little, however. I watched myself in the mirror, leaning just a trifle forward and to the right, dropping my right shoulder half an inch.
At that second my eyes widened, and a cold rush swept through my body. I had noticed the thin band of Warren cord on my left sleeve!
This would mean nothing whatever except for the fact that on an occasion five years previously I had brought exactly similar cord from Scotland and had used it a dress on a suit the next winter. Combined with the extraordinary fact that the suit fitted Like a madman I tore off the collar and examined it. No clew here! the collar was new.
On the second I bethought myself of a certain test. Turning inside out the lining of the right breast pocket, I found the tailor's name. Sewed on, just as I had feared to find it, was the linen square, bearing the name “J. Laskert,—Fifth Avenue, New York,” and below this the script letters, “K. F. T.” That was my tailor; those were the initials of the name I thought left behind me; the suit had been made for me four years before!
Unmindful of the fact that the white bow, still tied, was hanging around my collarless neck, I ran across the hall. Hoffman was sitting smoking quietly, just as he had been during my lesson on sheep.
“I've come to the end!” I announced abruptly, stopping squarely before him. Explanations of a sordid nature were racing through my brain. “You can tell 'J. M.' that he can find another man to pay his thousand dollars a month to. I've seen enough to make me certain that I wish no more connection with this project, whatever it is.”
Hoffman looked me over from head to foot coldly, the same half sneer on his lips. “Scared out?” he asked, insulting me deliberately.
I had determined that nothing he could say would move me, however. “No,” I answered. “If you know my record at all you know that I am not a coward. If you still have doubt I can find time to oblige you in any manner you suggest.” I felt myself bristling like a schoolboy but Hoffman's calm assumption of superiority, coupled with his quite evident ability had galled me somewhat.
He bowed, and I thought a glint of amusement came into the corners of his eye. “Some time when you have more time to yourself,” he promised. “There's nothing delights me more than friendly bout with the gloves. But why, if you are not frightened do you want to drop out of this enterprise?” His expression shaded into coldness again.
“Because I don't like it!” I retorted. “I haven't any special reason for confiding in you, but I don't mind saying that I have taken an assumed name for a real reason. Nearly three thousand people believe that I ought to be in jail, and though I proved myself innocent to the authorities I can't set myself right with the three thousand until Oh, well, never mind the story.”
“Yes? I don't see any connection.”
“You don't?” I still was a trifle angry. “Well, this is where it comes in: I am in Chicago, broke, and living under an assumed name. Presumably nobody knows me. I am approached by a perfect stranger, who asks me to go to work for him on a blind assignment at a thousand a month and expenses. I know there must be a nigger in the woodpile somewhere. It has to be dirty work of some kind. He knows my circumstances and thinks I can't afford to refuse.”
“Oh, rot!” exclaimed Hoffman impatiently. “If you're so deuced honorable, why don't you wait until you see something about your job that convinces you that it is dishonorable? You're fighting a shadow.”
“I have. This dress outfit proves it to me. Tell me—aren't you connected in some way with the depositors?”
“The depositors?” he echoed, patently puzzled. “My dear boy, I am not connected with any one, really. In fact, I can scarcely be said to be in on this project at all.” His face showed nothing except that he was telling the truth. “And I can add something to that statement, too,” he went on. “You are not here because of your identity, or because of any crime you are thought to have committed in the past. I don't know who you are and I don't care a Continental!”
“Then why did you send me this dress suit?” I flared.
“Why?” He stopped and regarded me critically. “Doesn't it fit pretty well?”
“Yes, it fits!” I retorted. “The person who sent it knew it was going to fit. It was made for me about four years ago!”
“Made for you?” he repeated, astonished.
“Yes. And coincidences like that just don't happen!”
A smile crept into his black eyes. “I suppose,” he began quietly, “that this suggests some dastardly plot to your mind. You think probably that some one is trying to blackmail you or get hold of you in some way. I don't know the first thing about the incident of those clothes. I do know that I received indirect word from 'J. M.' that there would be a suit up her for you to-night in which you could make a decent appearance. From what you tell me you apparently don't care to be known by your former name, but that is nothing to me. I don't know your reason, and I care nothing whatever to know. This much I can tell you: 'J. M.' didn't hire you without knowing every single thing about you; you can bank on that. Therefore the fact that the dress suit fits you causes me no surprise. If I were you, though, I'd forget all about my self-consciousness. No matter if you are His Satanic Majesty himself in disguise, you'll do for our purposes if 'J. M.' says so.”
I squirmed inwardly at his words, but kept calm. “Well, I don't believe any legitimate enterprise could want a man with my reputation connected with it. I shall get out to-night.”
“Look her!” Hoffman had risen, glowering at me. “I don't mind telling you, young man, that if I thought there was a chance in the world of my being put in your place to-night, I'd tell you to get out in a hurry! Right now I am more jealous of the change you have than you can imagine. I did my best two months ago to qualify, but I failed. I'm too well known around here.
“One day about two weeks ago, after 'J. M.' had tried out three other young men for this place—all of them failed to make a go of it, by the way—he told me that he had found the man. He just said that a certain scandal had occurred, and that the young fellow concerned would be just about desperate enough to make good. He didn't tell me what the scandal was, and I didn't inquire. Now, if you still insist on quitting I shall have to send you to 'J. M.' myself. I have done my best.”
He was telling the truth all the way, and I was sure of it. The question of what this mysterious omniscient person might want of me still burned in my brain, but many of my fears had been dispelled. “Well,” I decided, “if you know all about me and still feel that I can be of use to you, I'm satisfied.”
“Fine!” commented Hoffman. “Now get your check book out of the table drawer. I'm going to see just how well you gamble.”