If the Shoe Fits—/Chapter 1

HE man crouched lower still in the shadow of the box car. He was shivering, one would have said with a sudden chill. And yet it was an intensely warm night, not yet midnight, the middle of August. He wore a heavy overcoat, very long, touching the heels of his shoes, the collar drawn up about his throat. There was more darkness than light in the freight yards, and it seemed to his quivering nerves that everywhere about him the darkness was a thin, insufficient veil through which a million brilliant lights were flashing, seeking him out.

A slight noise, the sound of a man walking across the tracks, drove him deeper into the shadow until he had pressed his body between two cars. A brakeman with swinging lantern went across the yards, moving swiftly to supper and bed. The man between the cars eyed him suspiciously, half expecting him to turn and come back. But the brakeman passed on, into the station-house and out of sight.

The man, who had stopped shivering a little, and who now was again shaking so that the heavy coupling chain against which he leaned clanked rustily, turned his eyes back to the way along which he had come. Yonder, like a sort of yellow, unnatural dawn against the horizon, he could see where the myriads of lights of New York turned upon him like evil, watchful eyes. He turned his back to them again, and again the softly jangling coupling chain startled him so that he moved swiftly as though about to run, and then dropped back, crouching, almost upon his knees.

Suddenly he grew very still, his whole body rigid, his nerves frozen with the greater, newer fear. Again he had heard footsteps, again they were moving across the graveled yard. But this time they were slow, seeming to take on a vague, disquieting quality of stealthiness. And they were close to him. He turned his head a little. It seemed to his terror-sharpened senses that the noise his neck made against his stiff, starched collar must have cried out across the yards. For a moment the beating of his heart stifled him, the blood rushing into his ears shut out all other sounds. And then his leaping heart went suddenly still, and he grew weak and faint and sick.

Another man had swung down from one of the box cars, from the door upon the other side or from the rods underneath. He had crawled quietly beneath the car and now, a vague blur in the night, came forward. He had not seen the man in the long overcoat, did not see him until their bodies touched in the narrow space between the cars. Then he drew back with a little grunt, his head thrust forward, his fists lifted a little at his sides.

“Well?” he demanded when the two of them had stood silent for ten seconds. “What's the game?”

The man in the overcoat made no answer. He was moistening his lips, trying to drive back the tight, dry lump in his throat. And he still crouched in the thickest of the shadows, still shivered spasmodically. The other eyed him suspiciously.

“I asked what's the game?” he repeated presently. “Looking for somebody? You're a bull, I suppose?”

The man in the overcoat laughed nervously. And he had thought that he would never laugh again as long as life and memory were left to him. And then he broke off, shuddering again.

The other grunted again and put a hand in his pocket, not seeming to note how the crouching man drew back distrustfully from him. The thing he had sought was a cigarette. With a careless movement he swept a match across his thigh, held it cupped in his hand and brought it close to his face.

As he stood the light from the big lamp across the yard, running under the car, found out his feet. They were the feet of a tramp, encased in ill-fitting shoes, much worn, laced with bits of string, the toe of his sock showing where the upper was breaking away from the thin sole. And now his hands, in the tiny light of his match, seemed not to belong to the same body as the feet. For, in spite of the grime upon them, they were white and the fingers were soft and slender and in all things the fingers of a gentleman unused to contact with the rough boards and rusty iron of freight cars. The clothes were old and tattered, the soft hat torn so that in places his dark hair showed. But again the face was the face of a man of intellect, of refinement even. As the light of the match flared across cheek and jaw and nose, as it showed the high forehead with the smudge of grease across it—

“My God?”

The cry, whipped from the lips of the man in the overcoat, was one of profound amazement. He stood suddenly upright, as suddenly as though he had been jerked upward by some force outside himself, greater than his own. And as he moved he drew his coat collar higher about his throat, pulled his hat brim lower over his face. The match flared a little in the gust of a draft drawn through the cars and went out. In the glow of the cigarette the face of the smoker was seen faintly and only fitfully.

“I—I am going crazy!” muttered the man in the overcoat. He covered his eyes with his hand, his left hand, and stood still for a little, now and then moaning like a man in physical pain. And then suddenly, with a new something of command in his voice: “Let me see your face again! Light another match.”

The newcomer eyed him strangely, drawing back a step or so.

“If you are not crazy,” he said bluntly, “you're giving an excellent imitation.”

“Here!” The left hand had dropped from his eyes and was now thrust out eagerly, something in the fingers rustling crisply. “There's ten dollars. Let me see your face, and you can have it. Quick!”

“No one ever told me that my face was my fortune!” The slender white fingers tapping the cigarette made no move towards the crinkling bill. “If I had gotten a place in a side show—”

“I'll give you ten, twenty dollars, a hundred dollars!” He was fumbling again in his pocket before he had said the last word. There was no doubting his genuine excitement, his nervous eagerness.

“Why?” The question, snapped out, was half anger, half curiosity. “Why do you want to see my face? I haven't seen yours yet.”

“I'm paying for it, am I not?” The left hand, holding the bank-notes, went upward swiftly to the hat brim, drawing it still lower down over the features already hidden. “Say I'm mad if you like. Here's the money. Do you want it?”

There was just a little hesitation, and that died quickly under a little, amused laugh. The fine, slender hand reached out for the bills.

“I happen to need just a bit of change,” with a chuckle. “You wouldn't guess it from the style in which I travel, would you? And I need a new pair of shoes, as you may have noticed. I'll trust you, friend, and won't count the money. Now,” as another match scratched across his thigh, “I earn my money. Drink your fill of my manly beauty!”

Again the clean-shaven jaw, the dark line of the brows, the good-humored, frank eyes stood out in relief in the faint light. The man in the overcoat drew nearer, peering close into the face which he had paid a hundred dollars to see. And as the match burned down and went out he fell back, muttering to himself:

“It's impossible, impossible!— Things like this don't happen, they can't happen!—God! There's a chance!”

“And now—you don't want to spend another hundred dollars, do you?—I'll be going.”

“Wait.” A nervous hand, still the left hand, clutched him by the arm, dragging him back into the thick shadow. “I—I want you to do something for me. I,” hesitatingly, “I wanted to see if—if you were honest. Will you go to the police station, quick? Tell them that Mr. Ruud, Jasper Ruud, is in the yards here and that he is hurt, badly hurt. I... I have been attacked by hold-up men... badly beaten. Tell them to rush here. Look!” For the first time he held up his right hand. There was a handkerchief about it and this was no longer white but drenched with blood. He drew the handkerchief away with a jerk, holding the hand out so that the lamp-light fell across it. Two of the fingers were crushed out of all semblance of shape. “You see? And I have a bruised side, and the side of my head— You will hurry? Here, wait. This,” as his left hand went into his pocket and brought out a thick envelope. “Take this. You are to have a new pair of shoes!”

“I say.” The other swung about and came back. “If you are hurt...."

“Never mind. Do as I say. And run, man!”

The man in the overcoat watched anxiously as the other hesitated and then began to stride off across the yards. He continued to watch until the swiftly moving form stood clearly outlined in the street fifty yards away. And then he drew back between the box cars, slipped quickly under the coupling-chain, darted out upon the further side, and ran as a man runs for his life.

The man in the worn-out shoes and tattered clothing hurried down the quiet street, stopped once to ask a passer-by where the police station was, and hastened on again. He crossed the street, turned a corner, went down a short street, now running himself, swung about another corner and flung open the door of the station-house. A policeman in uniform was sitting at a little table, making his report. Two men in civilian dress were idling in the far end of the room, smoking and laughing. They all looked up as the newcomer came in, panting from his running. And as they saw him clearly the three of them stood up as one man and swung upon him with something in their air which did not escape him, which looked to him very much like excited surprise and threatening hostility.

“In the freight yards,” he burst out, panting, his arm flung.out, pointing. “A man named Jasper Ruud has been robbed and beaten. He wants you to come—”

The two men in plain clothes looked at each other, significantly, smiling a little. The policeman moved a couple of steps until he stood in the open doorway. His hand had dropped to the skirt of his coat. The two other men came forward slowly.

“Well?” demanded the man in rags, frowning. “What's the matter?”

“So Jasper Ruud is down in the freight yards, is he? And he has sent you for the police?”

“That's what I said!” And as he saw that they believed no word of what he was saying, “Just because I didn't stop to put on a dress suit you're not going to pay any attention to me, is that it?” He swung about towards the door. “I'm going to get a doctor. That man is badly hurt. And—will you let me by?”

The-heavy hand of the big policeman was upon his shoulder, jerking him back. The two men in plain clothes had leaped forward, again as one man, when he had turned. They were experts at such things, and before he had guessed what was happening it had happened, and he was handcuffed and the things in his pockets were dumped on the table.

“What are you doing?” he stormed, shaking his. double fists at them. “What do you think—”

The door at the far end of the room was flung open, and a heavy-set man in the uniform of a captain of police hurried into the room. He stopped suddenly, his mouth dropping open in his surprise.

“Jasper Ruud!” he gasped. “You got him!”

“I don't understand,” muttered the stranger. “Jasper Ruud sent me. He is—”

The police captain laughed shortly. Then he stepped to the table upon which lay the articles which had been jerked from the struggling man's pockets, noting particularly the roll of bills and the envelope which the man in the overcoat had said was for a new pair of shoes. Here were more banknotes, a thousand dollars at the least, and a dozen or more checks.

“I am sorry, Mr. Ruud.” The captain's voice was meant. to be sympathetic, but there was an undercurrent of great satisfaction in it which did not escape the prisoner's ears. “But it is our duty to arrest you!”

“But, I tell you, I am not Jasper Ruud! You are making a mistake.”

“Maybe you can explain then, about these things?” He held up the sheaf of checks, held together by a rubber-band. “They are payable to Jasper Ruud!”

“He gave them to me.”

The captain turned them over.

“They are not endorsed. Rather a strange sort of present, isn't it? And the banknotes?”

“He gave them to me, too. To bring word to you and—”

“And what?” quickly.

“To get me a new pair of shoes!”

The four men laughed loudly, as they no doubt thought they were supposed to do,

“It's a great dodge, Mr. Ruud. I don't know that I see just what you're figuring on. But I guess you know. And it's bold, by the Lord, it's bold and new! Going to make it a question for alienists when the thing comes to trial?”

“Trial? Do you mind telling me what you mean? What is this man Ruud accused of?”

“So you've forgotten?” The captain's eyes twinkled. “Well, you've the right to have us remind you. You are arrested for the murder of a man named Lon Kelton.”