CHAPTER IX

THE WINDOW CLEANER

Most of the excitement in the Spanish club seemed to center around the front entrance, probably because, when the lights were dimmed, patrons who had nothing to do with the affair which brought Nat Ridley there, ran out that way.

A crowd gathered from the street, attracted by the shouts of the men and the screams of the women, and several police officers were on hand. Nat and Berry sensed this as they emerged from a rear door into the small yard, the chief detective still carrying the half of the coat which he hastily stuffed beneath his own garment, so it would not attract attention, for Nat was rather sprucily attired and to see a gentleman of his calibre carrying a torn coat did not argue well.

"Is there a way out of here?" asked Nat of Berry as, under the gleam of the moon, they looked about the yard which was not only surrounded by a high fence, but had buildings on both sides and at the rear.

"Surely there is!" declared Berry, who looked enough like Nat in that sleuth's regulation guise to be the latter's twin brother. "Like yourself, Chief, I never go into a place that I don't make sure there is a way out, and I spotted this one soon after I parked here this evening. Come along before that fellow takes the door off its hinges."

Indeed, it seemed that this might happen, for the man with the knife on the other side of the door was banging and kicking at it with enough energy to indicate that some of the panels would soon give way.

"He wants us bad!" chuckled Nat.

"They're all bad actors," agreed Berry. "My, but things happened quick after that fellow bumped into me! Only for you, Chief, I'd have a knife in my ribs now."

"Oh, I guess you could have taken care of him, Berry."

"Well, I'm just as glad you did it, Chief. Now here we go."

Berry ran to a certain part of the fence where, to the casual observer, there was no sign of a gate. But one was there, just the same, cleverly concealed, and a moment later it was open and the two sleuths saw before them an alleyway leading to the street.

Not much too soon, if they wished to avoid a fight, had Berry found the exit. For as he and Nat slipped through the secret gate, the door Berry had locked was burst open and the raging Mexican came rushing out, crying something in Spanish and brandishing his knife.

"Silencio!" someone uttered in sharp tones and there followed some commands in Spanish, hearing which the fellow who was eager to sheath his knife in Nat's ribs reluctantly turned back.

"Guess his boss got after him," chuckled Berry. "They don't want too much of a row here."

"There's been plenty of that," agreed Nat. "Well, I guess we can't get any more information here in these rigs, Berry. They're on to us. But you keep on being Nat Ridley and I'll change into something else to-morrow. I want to get a chance to look at this coat."

"Half a coat you mean," corrected his helper. "It should be easy to spot the man who lost it."

"Not likely he'd go about wearing part of a garment," objected Nat. "He'd either borrow one, or else go around in his shirt sleeves. No, let's beat it."

And beat it the two did, along a quiet back street and into a taxicab which took them to their offices. Nat allowed his assistant, who still impersonated him, to go in first, in case any of the Tola gang might be watching. The great detective himself made use of the freight elevator to reach his floor and, a little later, with the windows carefully shaded, he was examining the half a coat he had torn off the man who tried to kill him.

It was a cheap and ordinary garment, the kind of clothing sold in department stores, and probably would, in itself, afford no clew to the owner.

"But there may be something in the pockets," suggested Berry.

"Just what I'm going to find out," decided Nat.

From the outside pocket of the right side of the garment, which was the part the sleuth had, were taken some strong cigarettes so much indulged in by Mexicans and South Americans. There was also a clip of paper matches. These Nat put aside for future examination, though they were not very promising.

The inside pocket was richer in material to work on, for Nat brought out two rather worn letters in their original envelopes. They bore Mexican stamps and postmarks, showing they had been mailed in Rolamotaza.

"See if you can make out the dates on those postmarks, Berry," suggested Nat, handing the envelopes over to his assistant. "You'll find a magnifying glass in the second drawer of my desk on the right."

While Berry was at this task, Nat began a perusal of the letters themselves. They were addressed to Juan Castro, and the detective felt sure this was the man who wanted to knife Berry and also who had tried to attack him.

Written in Spanish as they were, Nat could make out only a few words here and there, for his knowledge of Spanish was small. He knew the Spanish word for oil, and he saw that scattered throughout the missive. He also saw the name Cora Ardell.

"That doesn't sound like a Spanish name," mused Nat, uttering it over and over again. "I wonder where she comes in? Well, I'll have to get these letters translated."

He glanced at the signatures. They were both the same, a scrawl which, as nearly as the detective could make out, resolved itself into the name Martolo.

"Another chap to look up!" mused the detective, through a haze of smoke from one of his strong, black cigars. "Well, any luck, Berry?" he asked his helper, who was puzzling over the envelopes.

"No, the postmark is so blurred I can't make any date on it. We might try photographing it--that sometimes brings out things you can't see with a glass."

"I don't know that it's important," Nat said. "I'll wait until I have these letters translated. The date may not matter. We'll call it a night, Berry, and quit. Now you go up to my apartment and get a good sleep."

"Your apartment!" exclaimed Berry. "What's the matter with my own home?"

"You forget that you are Nat Ridley," said the detective, with a chuckle. "Got to carry out the deception, Berry. Go ahead up. I've told Julian to expect you." Nat referred to his colored servant who looked after the Central Park West apartment.

"Oh, all right. I'll be living like a swell!" laughed Berry.

Nat, making some slight changes in his disguise, waited until his helper had gone. Then, putting the two letters carefully in an inner pocket, he left his office to go to the Herald Square Hotel again.

Forgetting none of the caution that was second nature with him, Nat Ridley looked about before stepping into the street. It was about one o'clock in the morning, but that, in New York, is only the "shank of the evening," and the streets in the vicinity of Times Square were filled with throngs.

Nat fancied he saw a man slink out of a doorway and start to follow him as the detective started down the street, and, chuckling to himself, Nat resolved to lead the shadow a merry chase. But the fellow, after following Nat a short distance, appeared to be satisfied that his quarry was not the man he wanted and turned back.

"He doesn't know me in this rig," Nat decided. "Well, adios, my friend. Adios," and with this Spanish farewell Nat went to his hotel and to bed.

He was at his office early the next morning, and one of the first things he did was to call for a Spanish interpreter whom he had come to the office to look over the letters.

"Write me out copies of these," directed Nat, giving the man a desk, pen and paper in a room off his own private office.

Several other matters claimed the detective's attention for the next fifteen minutes. But he finally disposed of the affairs, sending Baldy Stoler out on one case and Mary Dotley on another. Berry, as Nat, was ostentatiously busy writing in the front office, to throw off the track any of the Tola gang who might enter to spy out the situation.

As Nat was passing the desk of Toodles, the office boy, a shadow darkened one of the windows--the shadow of a man on the outside ledge.

"Who's that?" exclaimed Nat quickly.

"One of the window cleaners," Toodles answered. "The janitor sent word up early this morning that they'd be along our side of the building to-day."

"Oh, the window cleaner," murmured Nat, and he saw that that was the person whose shadow he had seen. The man, with his pail and chamois skin, was fastening his safety belt into the rings on either side of the casement.

Nat's stenographer spoke to him, asking him about a letter she was writing for him, and when he had set her right the sleuth turned back into his own private room, intending to ascertain how the translator was progressing.

As he put his hand on the knob there came from the room a cry of surprise, and, throwing open the door, Nat was in time to see the window cleaner leap in, knock aside the Spanish interpreter, grab something off the desk, and hurry out again.

"The letters! The letters!" cried the man Nat had hired. "The window cleaner took those two letters!"