CHAPTER XIV

I CONSULT LISPING JIMMIE

The following morning found me in the offices of the Blunt Detective Agency. James Blunt, popularly known the length and breadth of the land as "Lisping Jimmie," represented the best criminal-investigation talent in the market, and I knew that I would need the best. At heart I didn't believe that Ashton would be able to learn any more than I had. Blunt, however, would.

It was the first time I had met him, though I had followed his record, like every one else, since he first leaped into fame as a headquarters "bull" in the old Mulberry Street days. Since then he had further gilded his name, and incidentally his pocket, in a dozen famous cases, and the reputation of the private agency he had established was so high that its services were even enlisted for difficult government jobs.

Naturally, such talent did not stoop to picayune cases, nor were its fees picayune, either; James Blunt was the foremost specialist in moral diseases of society, and entitled to a specialist's prices, yet he wasn't mercenary.

Many stories have been woven round his remarkable personality--among others, that his name was assumed, and that he had left Yale under romantic circumstances--but what undoubtedly endeared him to the man in the street was the fact that his humanity was as big as his intellect, that love for his profession took precedence over all else, and that he had handled many a case for nothing. If you were in a hole without a red cent, and your wail reached the quick ears of Lisping Jimmie, he would pull you out for nothing. Another fact was--and undoubtedly this was responsible for his great and continued success--he took a hand personally in every case, and worked as hard as any of his operatives.

Even now, when his reputation and fortune were made, he didn't content himself with lying back in a chair and throwing orders at subordinates. I knew then that the difficult business of the Black Company would be cleaned up as quickly as possible, and that if he couldn't do it, none could.

"Before I begin, Mr. Blunt," I said, after introducing myself, "I want you to believe that, no matter what you may have heard about me, what I'm about to relate can't be charged to the account of John Barleycorn. In the vernacular, however bizarre or fantastic it may seem, it's not the dream of a booze fighter. If we start with that understanding, we'll get on much better."

He removed his nose glasses--I had heard they didn't magnify, and that his vision was really hawklike--and rubbed them with a pale heliotrope silk handkerchief that matched his scarf and socks. I had already verified the story that his dress was fastidious and exquisite. For the rest there was nothing of the traditional sleuth about him. He looked just the sort of average, clean-cut, successful young business man you see everywhere. His eyes were remarkably far apart, and with the pronounced lumps over them which are supposed to denote the calculating faculty, while in his manner there was a hint of languor and affectation which I knew to be characteristic.

"Mr. Lawton," he replied, with a faint, pleasing smile, and the peculiar lisp that had earned him his nickname, and which I needn't attempt to reproduce, "you can't say anything in the bizarre line too strong for me. After fifteen years' experience I've come to the conclusion, like some investigators in other lines, that in this world nothing is impossible. As for the rest, whatever popular legend may say of your thirst, I should give it as my opinion, if appearance goes for anything, that you haven't overindulged it for at least three weeks."

"That's quite true," I said. "Of course, you've seen the morning papers, so I needn't explain where I've been for those three weeks. But there's another news item to which I wish to draw your attention--that of the unknown man who was nearly killed last evening by a subway express."

"Yes, I saw it. Supposed to be a would-be suicide who repented providentially at the last moment, or the victim of an accident. So you were that man, and it was a deliberate play for your life? Oh, yes, it's an old dodge, but safe if pulled off right."

It was a comfort to meet an intellect that marched ahead instead of trailing behind; that made its own swift, unerring deductions, instead of asking a lot of long-winded questions; that could believe without having chapter, verse, and argument.

"Have you ever heard," I said, "of an organization calling itself the Black Company? A body of presumably sane men, representing such a fantastic idea as the black chessmen, who are known to one another as bishops, pawns, and so forth, and who even correspond by means of a secret code compiled from imaginary chess games? There's something bizarre for you, Mr. Blunt. And yet it was a member of such an organization that made the play for my life last night. Don't ask me how I know. I haven't a shred of evidence, yet I'm absolutely sure of it."

At first mention of the secret society, I noticed that the rather sleepy look departed from Mr. Blunt's eyes. "Dear me," he said mildly, "this promises to be a bit interesting. I'm something of a chess crank myself."

He pushed a button under his desk, and to a long-nosed man who entered said briskly: "The evidence in the Joe Turner and Andy Quigg cases, Fleming. Oh, yes, and the Isaac Goldmann affair."

Fleming disappeared, reappeared, and disappeared again like a phantom, the only evidence of his movements being a loose-leaf volume which he left at his employer's elbow.

"Now for your story, Mr. Lawton," said Blunt, and I opened up and told everything. I related every little incident from the time I left Princeton on that crazy ride, to the moment of my entering Blunt's office. I made a secret of nothing, for I even related what Hannay had told me about my father and Mr. Varney.

If I am ordered to build a bridge or construct a dam, I don't expect some of the blue prints to be held out on me, and that was the way I felt about this. I was engaging a master workman, and if I wanted results, it was up to me to see he had all the specifications. I think I told the whole thing in as few words as possible, for he never asked a question, merely taking several notes in shorthand as I went along.

"Now, that's absolutely all of it," I finished, "and here's the note I got from Corby and the two code messages. I won't be springing some all-important fact on you at the eleventh hour, and I don't think for a minute I can teach you your business any more than you can teach me mine. I'm not here to obstruct, but to help, if I can, and I'll take orders, not give them. Finally, I'm not out for revenge on anybody, even Frean, and if the whole thing can be kept quiet, so much the better. If there's a criminal gang after Varney I want it squelched, that's all, and I don't care what money or personal effort I spend in doing it."

"Mr. Lawton," he said dryly, "any time you think of giving up the engineering profession and want another job, come to me. I don't distribute compliments idly, but I say that of the many people who have tried at various times to teach me my business, you certainly would be the most qualified. As a client, your brevity, clearness, candor, and grasp of essential detail have been a refreshing surprise, while your whole conduct of this case has been very creditable indeed. Your only mistake was in saying anything to Mr. Scallon and this friend of yours."

"I couldn't get out of telling Ashton; he saw that affair in the subway. He is to be trusted absolutely. I've known him since prep school days, and can answer for his character and ability. He's as sharp, close, and true as a wolf trap."

"Well, that's something, and I'm inclined to believe you're a pretty good judge of character."

"As for Scallon, I wasn't taking any chances and so I didn't say a word about the Black Company. I was afraid he might pass it on unwittingly."

"Yes, but, of course, you see the whole point is this: that though you didn't say anything about the Black Company, you did ask a lot of questions about Mr. Varney. You may have been overheard, and they could put two and two together, especially if they knew you'd been to the hospital asking about Joyce. Up to that point I believe you may have succeeded in disarming suspicion to a great extent; they didn't know if you were really harmless or dangerous. Once they were sure that you were dangerous, they tried to short circuit you before you could use your money and information against them, and they'll keep on trying for revenge if nothing else."

"Yes, I suppose they will. Then you really know something about this secret society?"

"It has been suspected for some time that such an organization existed, but up to the present our only grounds for suspicion lay in these three cases," picking up the loose-leaf volume from his desk. "And by 'we' I mean not only this agency, but the police departments of New York, Philadelphia, and Boston. All three cases happened in these three cities, and within the past two years. The first was that of a young medical student called Turner; shot and killed one night in Broad Street, Philadelphia. Assailant unknown. Last conscious words were: 'The Black Company.' Here, then, is the first and last mention we have of that name. The second case happens six months later in Beacon Street, Boston, and at night also. A saloon keeper named Andy Quigg is stabbed through the lungs, and expires in the arms of a policeman, murmuring 'The King's Rook's Pawn.' The third and last case happens here one night last winter, on Fourth Avenue. Jewish rabbi, name of Isaac Goldmann, garroted on returning home from the synagogue. Found on him was a typewritten chess game in the algebraic notation, and a half-defaced phrase running: 'This is the secret code of----' Some policeman very obligingly destroyed this paper as unimportant before I had a chance to see it."

Mr. Blunt replaced the book on the desk and went on: "Now, here we have three victims in three different walks of life, in three cities, and of widely different ages--a young medical student, a middle-aged saloon keeper, and an old rabbi. In no case was robbery the motive, nor would the personal histories of these three men seem to suggest their being mixed up with criminals in any way. Of the three, certainly not Rabbi Goldmann, who was something of an idol among his people on the East Side. Turner belonged to a rich family, while Quigg was prosperous and respectable. Nothing was ever discovered by the police that would throw any light on these three murders.

"You understand," he finished, "that those three were distinctively police cases, and that this is the first time I've had a case dealing with the Black Company. I may say that the police have little if any belief that such an organization exists, and, lacking all evidence, in face of six months' silence, I was beginning to think I had attached, privately, too much significance to those three cases, when you now walk in and confirm all my suspicions."

"You agree with me, then, that it's a criminal organization, not politico-social or connected in any way with this Prussian propaganda, but simply out for profit?"

"In the main, yes. But I know no more about it than you. They may employ everything, from blackmail to burglary--though not of the crude variety. It is clear that they are rich, powerful, clever, and utterly unscrupulous. We know of these three murders. But how many more have occurred--the sort of 'accident' that happened to you last night? They are not a band of ordinary thugs. And so," he added gravely, "you're a marked man, Mr. Lawton. You've kicked up an invaluable find at great peril to yourself. You have discovered and solved their secret code, and you know three of their members. They haven't prevented you from delivering that information, but I warn you they will try to take it out of your hide. I'll get you a permit to pack a gun, and detail a man to shadow you. You won't like it, I know, but lack of precaution or foolhardiness is only playing the other fellow's game.

"Now," he continued, "you might have saved yourself that trip to the hospital for it was a foregone conclusion that Joyce wouldn't tell a story that could be so easily disproved. That fellow at Varney's is the real Joyce, and his stay in the hospital accounts for you being able to take his place for so long. He was out of his head for a week, and therefore couldn't notify his superiors what had happened, and they naturally thought he was on the job. As soon as he was able, he put them wise, and so for at least a week they knew you were an impostor. That explains why you got no more code messages, and why Corby told you nothing further. I don't pretend to understand the fact of Joyce and you being robbed by the same party; it may be no more than a coincidence, or it may mean the entrance of a complicating factor--some enemy of the secret society, though that doesn't explain his attack on you. We must follow that line, try to discover the man's identity. Unfortunately the remains are useless for that purpose. In general appearance, of course, he resembled you, but can you add some definite detail?"

"Yes. I noticed a striking deformity. As he pointed out the imaginary lights of New York with his left hand--he had the crank in his right ready to wallop me--I saw that it had six fingers, or, more correctly, five and a thumb. Now, I also saw that night more than one moon in the sky, yet I'm sure about this extra finger; it was rudimentary and as if stuck on to the little one. That hand must have been cut to pieces in the accident, or it would have proved that the victim wasn't Peter Lawton."

"Yes, he was so badly mangled that we'll never be able to prove that extra finger. All the same, and despite your confession as to the abnormal number of moons, this is a valuable item. Now," switching the conversation suddenly to another subject, "what do you know about this friend of yours, Howard Roupell? Why was he at the station?"

"He told me he had come to meet a friend who hadn't turned up." I then added that Roupell was no more than an acquaintance, one of the many I had made six months ago. "I really know very little about him except that he's a retired broker and man about town. One of the kind you may meet for years and never know any better. He's a member of one of my clubs, and goes in a bit for first nights, the bottle, and bridge. Of course he can't have anything to do with this business; a genial old Falstaff, if a bit of a bore, and about the last person you'd think of being mixed up with murder and sudden death."

"You never can tell," said Mr. Blunt, with his faint, pleasing smile. "Superfluous flesh is a great asset to malefactors. If you want to be a really successful crook, you must first feed up, for no jury likes to convict a fat man. They can't believe he's really so bad as he's painted. Of course, Mr. Roupell didn't shove you in front of that train, but he may have deputed a pawn to do so. I've an idea that in this agreeable organization the pawns do all the actual dirty work, until, as in the game of chess, they reach the eighth file and are promoted; then they become a capital piece, with a pawn of their own to direct. Perhaps they are advanced a square according to a certain number of successful enterprises. Who knows? Meanwhile we'll take a run down to Center Street and see if you can recognize anybody in the gallery. It's better than my private collection."

Although, for the sake of clearness, I have given our dialogue in sequence, it was really broken up into brief lisping sentences, and had frequent interruptions. Lisping Jimmie wasn't given to rounded periods, and, moreover, had a trick of leaving phrases unfinished. You had to march ahead with him, grasp the conclusion which he considered obvious, or be left in a hopeless muddle; and while he talked he worked. The long-nosed phantom, Fleming, was out and in the room constantly, taking the briefest but clearest orders. When we left to visit the rogues' gallery, trailed by a couple of operatives to see if any one followed us, the efficient machinery of the famous agency had been set in motion against the enemy.

It did not need Blunt's reminder to convince me that the task set us was no easy one, and might consume months. The securing of the necessary evidence against such an astute and cunning organization as this had shown itself to be would require infinite patience and caution, as well as enterprise. Obviously, it wasn't a simple matter of arresting Joyce, Corby, and Frean out of hand; even if we had the authority, based on the proper evidence, that would be only scotching the tail of the venomous reptile.

"What we want are the men higher up," said Blunt. "Of course, they're warned now. It's an even chance that they know of your visit to me. In that case they may abandon whatever game they're up to with Mr. Varney."

"Do you know anything of this peculiar disease of his?" I asked. "I mean, could the symptoms of Bronze Skin be produced by artificial means, say some chemical?"

"I don't think so, but that's one of the things we'll have to find out. We must follow every line."

Naturally I didn't like the idea of Mr. Varney's past being probed, but there was no help for it. The greatest puzzle was why Joyce should have been installed in the house, what connection there was between Varney and the Black Company. I was convinced it was a wholly innocent one on his part, that he was a prospective victim, but Blunt was taking nothing for granted. He meant to investigate everything and everybody.

"Your theory that they're attempting his life by some subtle poison which gives the symptoms of Addison's disease is ingenious," he said. "He first developed it in Philadelphia, you say, the reputed headquarters of the society. And it would explain Joyce's presence if the poison had to be constantly administered. Yes, it's ingenious, but not sound, for it doesn't explain Frean's or Corby's part. No, we have yet to find the key move to this problem."

"In that code message what does it mean by 'Varney moves on second?' Has it a hidden meaning, or are we to take it literally? It may mean any square from king's rook's to queen's rook's second--any one of eight squares. Is something to happen on that particular square? I've racked my brains but I can't get any meaning out of it."

"It may mean a date."

"But Varney isn't going to move anywhere on the second; he's booked there for the summer. Anyway, that's one thing they don't know--that I found that message."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," said Blunt. "It's hard to say what they know or don't know. They seem to have an excellent spy system. How long is your friend, Mr. Ashton, staying in Philadelphia?"

"Two or three days."

"Oh!" said Lisping Jimmie, and I caught a rather queer look in his eyes, which I was to remember later.

Our visit to the gallery was a distinct failure. I scrutinized profiles and full faces of every conceivable type, until I was almost dizzy, but in no case could I identify one as that of Joyce or Corby. Curiously enough, the only photo that stirred my memory had nothing to do with that worthy couple. "See here," I said, pointing it out. "If this fellow had a mustache, he'd look like the one that stole my car. At least, he reminds me of him. He had a hook nose and bushy brows like that."

"I'm not familiar with his map," said Blunt. "H'm, Charlie Banks, doing time for grand larceny, eh? I'll have to look Charlie up."

"By George!" I exclaimed. "Supposing it was a false mustache? Look here, I haven't told you about that; I thought, of course, I'd only imagined the thing. I thought it was impossible, like all those moons I saw. But, apart from those moons, I seem to have observed things pretty accurately that night. Now when I found this fellow cranking my car----" And I explained about the wonderful automatic mustache that was capable of intelligent self-movement.

As I finished, an official came in--I learned afterward that he was head of the detective bureau--and nodded familiarly to my companion. "Heard there's been a murder over in Philly," he said at length laconically. "New Yorker by the name of Ashton. Beats hell how business keeps up."