The Mystery of the Private Dining Room

$by$ Johnston McCulley

ITTING close beside the window in his compartment of the Limited, Richard Polland saw the scattered shacks with vegetable gardens surrounding them, then some bungalows of a more pretentious sort, then streets with rows and rows of cottages constructed after the same architectural pattern—the sort built to sell for so much down and so much a month.

All this meant, of course, that the train was getting into the city. There were manufacturing enterprises near the tracks, and junk yards and sidings and switches. The houses were closer together now, too, and older. Polland saw the first street-car track, and then the first paved street. A few minutes more, and the train would pull into the suburban station.

Richard Polland long ago had decided to get off at the suburban station. Perhaps, he thought, they would not be expecting him to do that, and he might evade them. He would have to be careful about it, though—very careful. At the last moment, he would alight, dodge through the station quickly, and catch a taxicab or lose himself in the throng at the subway station.

For the thousandth time, Polland cursed his folly in sending that telegram to James Cranton. He cursed his hot temper that always was getting him into trouble. Why had he not gone about the matter in some other way? Why had he not taken the trouble to be sensible for once?

He remembered, now, how it had struck him at first—that James Cranton, his old friend of many years’ standing, had swindled him. He had seen red when that knowledge had impressed itself upon his brain. That the guilty man was Cranton seemed to make it all the worse—he might have expected it of a stranger, and would have guarded against it, but he had not expected it from his friend.

When the news reached him, he had been out in Colorado, in an unsettled portion of the State, attending to mining properties, And in that moment he had decided to abide by the old law of the West, that every man obtain justice for himself, rather than enter a long and expensive litigation to prove his rights.

He looked back at the days when he and James Cranton had been youngsters in the mining field, trying to be prospectors, and furnishing a lot of fun for the old-timers. Cranton had laughed at their failure and said that he intended playing the financial end of the game from an office in the city; leaving the wide stretches of waste land and mountains, he had gone to the town.

Polland had chosen to remain out where he could see the sky meet the land, to fight the horrors of desert, forest, and mountains that he might also enjoy their beauties and seek for their hidden wealth. He picked up a few good things, of course, as any determined young man might have done, but nothing big. And then had come the big thing, a prospect so rich that it had startled Polland. He had sent for Cranton, and Cranton had come, looked it over, and had gone back East to interest capital.

It had not been difficult to get capital interested, for Polland had something really big. And then Polland, filled with enthusiasm, worked like a slave day and night, spending his brain and his muscle without reserve to get things going properly, guarding the interests of the capitalists as well as his own.

Then the blow had come. Polland did not have all the details, but he saw at once that he had been swindled. The financiers headed by the shrewd James Cranton had been too much for him. He had done the work, and now they were freezing him out.

Polland’s big chance in life was gone—he was being robbed of it by unscrupulous men. And James Cranton, his old friend, who had had the red blood of honesty changed to the water of iniquity in the big city, was at the bottom of it. Cranton had not been content, it appeared, to take an enormous percentage for himself and his financial friends; he had wanted to steal it all.

Richard Polland came from old Western stock. His ancestors had fought their way across the plains, and his father had belonged to the days when a man got justice for himself with a six-gun if he could not in any other way. Cranton came from that sort of stock, too, but it was evident that he had forgotten it.

So Richard Polland, his temper flaming, had hurried from the mine to the nearest telegraph office, riding his best horse like a madman, and to James Cranton in New York he had sent this message: “I am coming to get you, you crook.”

An hour later, Polland had boarded a transcontinental train and was being rushed eastward. He had taken time to pack a suit case and a bag. Some streak of cunning in his make-up had told him that it might not be an easy thing to approach James Cranton now, that he would have to dress the part.

And Polland had clothes. Because he spent a part of his time in the mining district, it did not follow that he always dressed in worn boots, corduroy trousers, and flannel shirt. Polland spent his winters in Denver, and every evening found him at his club in correct evening attire. His suit case contained the necessary dress suit.

His flaming temper sustained him as far as Chicago, and then it had begun to cool. Polland slowly realized that he had been a fool and played into the enemy’s hands.

James Cranton was a big man in New York now, a man of wealth and influence. And yet James Cranton was of the old West, and it made a dangerous combination. He had put Cranton on guard, and it stood to reason that Cranton would be watching for him.

He knew, now, that he wanted to talk affairs over in a quiet manner, and ascertain just how far Cranton and his associates had transgressed. Perhaps now he never would have the chance. Cranton would have the right to shoot him down on sight, since he had sent that telegram, and no jury could convict him for doing it. A man had the right to defend himself. Cranton would not hesitate, either. Enough of the West remained in him for him to take matters into his own hands.

Again, James Cranton might have used his influence to have men watching for Polland, It would be easy for Cranton, perhaps, to have him taken from the train and put under arrest; perhaps Cranton even had power enough to have him rushed to prison to serve a long term. That telegram sent from the little station in Colorado was enough to form the basis for a serious charge.

The thought of prison terrified Richard Polland! He was used to the big, silent places, where a man could stand on the top of a knoll and see a vista of thousands of acres before him, no matter in which direction he looked. Even Denver in the winter had seemed close quarters to Polland.

As the thought grew upon him, his fear grew with it. Man to man and face to face he would not be afraid of James Cranton—but he was afraid of Cranton’s influence. There seemed to be but one thing to do—evade James Cranton and the others until he could manage to straighten things out.

There was a way to do that—to see old Judge Samble, who was from the West himself. He knew both Cranton and Polland, and he was friendly with them both; had been, in fact, a great friend of Polland’s father in the old days.

Polland formed his plan. He would dodge Cranton and his men and manage to get to some hotel; then he would telephone Judge Samble and tell the story. The judge would go to James Cranton and carry an apology for the telegram, and then the three of them would arrange a meeting, and get down to facts. Then, if James Cranton was proved a swindler, Polland would know how to deal with him.

A few years before, Polland had been in New York, and he knew enough of the city to get around without much assistance. The first thing to do would be to dodge Cranton and his men at the station, if they happened to be there. Safe in a room in some hotel, he could open negotiations with the judge by telephone, and then he would feel more secure.

He tried to analyze this sudden fear that had come upon him, but found that he could not. It was not like him to be afraid of anything. He told himself that it was because he was in the enemy’s country; out in the West he would not have been afraid.

In his bag he had his reliable six-gun, but he did not take it out and put it where it would be ready for instant use. He seemed to sense that it would be better to go unarmed. Perhaps even under the influence of New York, James Carnton [sic] had retained enough of his Western training to prevent him shooting down an unarmed man.

Then Polland remembered the telegram again. That seemed to wipe out everything. He had told Cranton that he was coming to get him, and, even under the code of the West, that gave Cranton the right to shoot at sight, without taking chances. It intimated that Polland could be expected to do the same.

Polland knew, though, that he feared being trapped into a long imprisonment more than he did being shot down. What a fool he had been to send that message! Why had he not come East quietly, without announcing himself and his intentions, and come face to face with James Cranton where the latter would not have a big advantage? Had his anger entirely robbed him of his native cunning?

“Too late now!” Polland reflected. “Might as well make the best of it!”

The rushing train was rapidly nearing the One-hundred-and-twenty-fifth Street station. There was but the one thing to do—get safely to some hotel, telephone, and get Judge Samble to straighten out this tangle if possible without making too much of a fool of himself, and without letting James Cranton believe that Richard Polland had backed down.

He locked to his suit case and bag and placed them on the floor near the door. Standing by the window, he could see streets lined with tenement buildings, wash flying from lines on the roofs, milk bottles on the window ledges and fire-escape landings in an utter disregard of municipal ordinances to the contrary.

Polland recognized the district from his previous trips, and knew that he was nearing his destination even as the speedy train commenced to slow down. He picked up the suit case in his left hand, placed the bag handy, and made ready to open the door of the compartment. Just as the train began sliding along the platform of the station, he darted back to the window and pulled down the curtain. He had forgotten that for a moment; and he told himself now that he must be very careful and forget nothing.

The train stopped, and Polland waited. Somebody walked through the passage Outside and called to the porter. Polland opened the door a crack and peered out, saw that the passage was empty, picked up the bag, and hurried toward the end of the car.

The porter was just starting to close the trap in the vestibule. He stopped and helped Polland off, and Polland tipped him generously. Polland had pulled his hat well down over his eyes, and stooping his shoulders, he picked up his luggage, and walked with quick and nervous steps along the platform toward the nearest exit.

He was cautious, alert. A few feet away, he saw a policeman, his back turned, and found himself flinching like a fugitive from justice. But he passed the officer without attracting his attention, and went on. He had decided to use the subway, and he was eager now to reach the street.

There were not many people at the station, and Polland began to have a feeling of security. He came to the exit and made his way through it, and glanced around to locate the subway entrance. And then his heart seemed to stand still.

Less than a hundred feet from him was James Cranton, sitting in an automobile, looking over the people, talking meanwhile to a broad-shouldered man who had detective stamped all over him.

Polland dodged behind a group of people who had just left the train. His heart was not standing still now—it was pounding at his ribs like a sledge-hammer in the hands of a giant. He dodged away from the group and got behind a massive pillar, and stopped there for a moment. His breath was coming in gasps; he was afraid, and he could not explain his fear, and he was ashamed of himself for being afraid. He tried to tell himself that James Cranton was no more formidable in New York than he would have been in the Western plains, but he could not convince himself.

Without putting down his suit case and bag, he bent and peered around the pillar. Cranton was still in the automobile talking to the other man, and as Polland watched, a third man joined the group, and, from his appearance, he was a detective, too. Polland could not hear what was said, but he saw the detective shaking his head to express the negative. He was reporting that he had not found Polland, the latter supposed.

Cranton made a gesture of disgust and spoke to the chauffeur. The two detectives got into the automobile, and the machine started to turn toward the open street. Polland dodged behind the pillar again. An instant later, the present danger was over. Polland breathed normally again and stepped out to the street. But he was as alert and on guard as before.

He reached the subway entrance, went down into the sub, and found himself in the midst of a throng waiting on the platform. He felt safer in the crowd, just as a city man would imagine himself safer out in the midst of an empty waste of land.

Polland boarded a downtown express, and got off at a busy station and mingled with the crowd again as he made his way to the street. He found himself at Times Square. The fear was still upon him, and he knew that it would be until he was in a room in some hotel. He turned toward the nearest, entered it, and surrendered his luggage to a boy.

But he met with disappointment there. The hotel was filled, and Polland was obliged to go out upon the street again. The experience had increased his nervousness and fear, for he felt that he had attracted attention to himself.

At the second hotel he met with the same sort of reception. He was almost in a panic now. He wondered whether it would not be better to check his bag and suit case until he found a place, but he decided against that. He wanted them with him, wanted to get into a room and stay there until Judge Samble could reach him.

At the third hotel he was fortunate enough to obtain accommodation. A surge of relief him as he stepped into the elevator and started for an upper floor. He tipped the bell hop generously, and as soon as the boy had gone he locked the door and dropped into a chair, weak, nervous, trembling.

The worst was over now, he thought. He would get Judge Samble, and he would explain that he was sorry about the telegram. No matter what James Cranton had done, he did not want to shoot Cranton or have Cranton shoot him, If there was to be a controversy, he would go to law about it.

Everything depended upon Judge Samble, it seemed. He must keep out of Cranton’s way until he could have the judge make overtures for him. The judge would bring them together and act as a sort of umpire in their dispute. But, if Cranton insisted upon trouble, Polland was ready for it.

For a quarter of an hour, he remained sitting before the window looking at the busy street far below. He wanted to become calm before he telephoned to the judge. He did not want even Judge Samble to guess the fear he had felt.

Some one knocked at the door—had they been watching him? Were things to come to a crisis before he could reach the judge?

The knock was repeated. Polland opened his bag quickly, took out his old six-gun, and slipped it beneath his coat. Then he stepped across to the door. If this was Cranton, he would have to be ready to fight, he knew.

“Who—who’s there?” Polland asked.

“Didn’t you ring, sir?” The voice of the bell hop was a most welcome sound to Polland.

“No, I didn’t ring.”

“Some mistake. Beg pardon, sir.”

“’S all right,” Polland muttered.

He found that he was trembling again, that the perspiration had popped out on his forehead once more. “I’ve got to quit this!” he told himself fiercely. “I reckon I’m not turning coward now. Who’s Jim Cranton that he should make me afraid?”

For another ten minutes he battled with himself, trying to conquer the peculiar emotions that had seized upon him. Then he felt that he was fit to telephone to the judge.

He gave the number and then, nervously, he waited. Everything depended upon the judge, and he would have to act quickly. He would tell the judge that he had just reached town, that he was in trouble and needed advice. That would bring the judge in a hurry.

A woman’s voice answered his call.

“I’d like to speak to Judge Samble,” Polland said. ‘Tell him, please, that it is Mr. Polland, of Colorado.”

Then Polland received another shock—the first big one that acted against the plans he had made.

“I’m sorry, but the judge is out of the city,” came the reply. “He will not be back until day after to-morrow. He went away to get a little rest, and did not leave an address.”

ITTING before the window again, Richard Polland had a season of gripping fear. And then, as he grew used to his surroundings, some of his native courage returned to him.

He began to ridicule himself for having felt any fear at all, save fear that he had made a fool of himself through his temper. He would not hide like a rat in a hole, he told himself. Until Judge Samble returned, he would remain away from James Cranton, but he would not hide.

Although he had registered under an assumed name, he remembered with a shock that he had centered his mind upon writing his new name, so that he had given his address as Denver, Colorado.

However, that might not injure him, Thousands of persons registered from Denver during the year, and it was unlikely that James Cranton would have every man so registering investigated.

“I’ve been an ass to act as I have,” Polland told himself now. “I’ll simply go my way and enjoy myself until the day after to-morrow, when the judge will be back, and then I’ll call him and have him attend to the affair. James Cranton can’t keep me holed up like a ground owl!”

Although he knew that there was small risk of running into Cranton, yet he did not think it likely. If Cranton wanted him arrested and railroaded to prison, though, he would have to be on guard. If he met Cranton face to face, Fate would have to decide the issue. But if Cranton had officers watching for him, looking for him, he would have difficulty dodging them.

The remainder of the afternoon he spent resting, and when evening came he dressed in a dinner suit and prepared to go out. The most natural thing, he knew, and the safest, would be to eat dinner at some big, fashionable restaurant, and take in a show afterward. Cranton would not be looking for him at such a place, nor at a show.

Looking in the directory, he ascertained where Cranton lived, so that by accident he would not go near that locality. He found that it would be easy to avoid it. Now that he was ready to leave the room, the fear came to him again, but he told himself that it was not fear of James Cranton himself, but of the unusual surroundings, of the men Cranton might have on his trail, of imprisonment for a long term.

He locked his door, left the key with the room clerk, and rang for the elevator. Outwardly, he was an ordinary business man going out for dinner. There was nothing in his appearance or manner to cause a suspicious individual to give him a second glance.

The elevator was almost filled when it stopped at his floor, and Polland squeezed into it and descended to the lobby, which was thronged, too. Polland decided against purchasing his show ticket at the hotel; if anybody was searching for him, he might be traced by it. He would get one after he had had dinner, he told himself. It did not matter what show, so long as he could spend the evening under cover at some theater.

He did not know much about fashionable restaurant life of the metropolis, so he walked up the street intending to select a place, constantly alert, yet knowing that, aside from James Cranton himself, he would not recognize an enemy if he met one face to face.

In the crowded street he had a feeling of security. But he kept to the outer side of the walk and constantly watched the persons he passed. He glanced in several restaurants, and decided against them; he wanted a large one, where the crowd was so dense that a man would not be liable to attract much attention.

Presently he found what he sought, a place brilliant with lights, and crowded with diners and dancers. Polland stepped in from the street and turned toward the check room. A head waiter approached him.

“Reservation, sir?”

“No,” Polland said. “I just arrived in town.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t a seat, sir,” the head waiter said. “We are very crowded at this season of the year, especially at the regular dinner hour.”

“I can go elsewhere,” Polland said curtly.

“One moment, please, sir. If you really want to eat, instead of listening to the music and dancing, I believe that I can accommodate you. There is a private dining room on the mezzanine floor. Another gentleman is there already, but he is alone, and there are two tables. You would not be in each other’s way at all, sir.”

“That’ll be good enough,” Polland said.

He did not want to stand there gossiping all night, he told himself, attracting attention. And a private dining room would be just the thing. He would not have to recognize that the other man existed.

The waiter ushered him up the stairs to the room. His table was in a corner of the room, and in the corner opposite was the other, half hidden behind a mass of imitation palms. Polland could just see the back of the man sitting there, and he did not turn as Polland entered.

Polland was hungry, and he had an old-fashioned appetite. The waiter grinned behind his back at the large order he gave—a porterhouse steak, potatoes, salad, coffee and pie. Handing Polland an evening paper, the waiter closed the door and hurried away.

Glancing again at the other table, Pollard saw that the man was in evening dress, bending forward, his back turned directly at Polland. A second glance told Polland that the man was not bending, but was leaning forward with his head upon his arm. Polland decided that he had fallen asleep, and he wondered why the waiter did not do something about the matter.

Later, the waiter returned with his order, and Polland gave all his attention to the meal. As Polland attacked his steak, he began thinking again of his predicament.

“I’ll not keep holed up,” he told himself. “To-morrow, and to-morrow evening, I’ll take in the town, only I’ll stay away from the neighborhood of Cranton’s residence and office. And when the judge returns, we’ll have things settled in short order.”

He ate with relish, for it was a delicious steak, even to a man who knew what a real steak was, and Polland anticipated an excellent meal. Then he found that the waiter had left a bottle of sauce, but no catchup.

Polland was one of those men who like catchup with a steak, and he wanted it now. He pressed the bell button and waited for a time, but the waiter evidently did not get the signal, else the connection was at fault.

Perhaps there was a bottle of catchup on that other table. Polland decided to find out. Stepping briskly across the little room, he stopped beside the other.

“Pardon me, but may I have your catchup?” he asked.

He saw the bottle on the table, and he did not like to take it without speaking. Perhaps the man was not really asleep. But he received no reply to his question.

He stepped to the other side of the table and reached for the bottle of catchup. It came over him then that the other man was not breathing at all. “Funny!” Polland grunted.

Looking down at the catchup bottle again, he grasped it, and started to draw it away. Suddenly he shuddered. The other man had spilled catchup all over the cloth. There was a smear of it beside his plate, a stream of it under his hands. His face was almost in a pool of it. Then Polland gasped with horror as the truth was driven home to him. It was not catchup at all.

Polland put the bottle down quickly, stepped around the table, put a hand on the man’s shoulder and shook him lightly.

“Wake up!” he said. “Hurt yourself?”

The man’s head rolled to one side. Polland gasped his horror again. The other man’s eyes were open, fixed and glazed. A gaping wound was in his throat, and the blood was starting to congeal. The man was dead, had been dead for at least an hour.

The head rolled more to one side, and Polland caught a glimpse of the face. And then a paralyzing sensation almost choked him—the face was that of James Cranton!

OR an instant he stood motionless, and then he backed away from the table, unconsciously wiping at his hands as though he feared they might be stained. The dead man had dropped forward again, sprawled across the table.

Polland reached his own table and sank into the chair. And then it flashed upon him what this tragedy might mean. Here was James Cranton dead—found dead alone in a room with Richard Polland, who had sent a message that he was coming East to get him!

As though in a flash, Polland saw the web of circumstantial evidence in which he might be enmeshed. He had threatened to get his man, he had come immediately to the city, he had sneaked off the train and at a hotel he had registered under an assumed name. Men would say that he had shadowed Cranton, traced him to the restaurant, got into the private room with him, and killed him. Suppose the head waiter could be made to say that he himself had suggested the private room? That would avail Polland nothing. It would look then, possibly, as though their meeting had been an accident; and then men would think that, coming face to face with the man he had sworn to “get,” Polland simply had carried out his threat.

The horror of it almost numbed his brain. He could hardly think; but he told himself that he must do something as a means of self protection. Did he want them to rush him to the electric chair? Was he to sit with folded hands and wait for that?

Then sudden realization seemed to come to him—he must get away from the restaurant. It would be safest to change hotels, too, and register from some other town. James Cranton was an important man—the moment his death was discovered, the police would be looking for Richard Polland, to arrest him for murder.

He thought of hurrying from the city, but was afraid that he would be apprehended trying to do so, and that would stamp him as guilty. And then the best scheme of all came to him—he would hide until the murder had been discovered, and then go boldly to some first-class hotel and register under his own name. He would pretend that he had just reached the city—that Cranton had lain before he arrived.

Getting out of the restaurant was the first thing. As he thought of it, the door opened and the waiter entered again. Richard Polland watched closely as he cleared away the things.

“Wasn’t the steak all right, sir?” he asked,

“Yes; I just changed my mind about being hungry,” Polland replied, managing to smile. “Bring my pie, and some ice cream, also. And a couple of good cigars. And rush them along, please.”

The waiter bowed and disappeared. Polland waited until he knew that the man had had time to get away from the passage outside, and then he tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table, grasped his hat and coat, and hurried to the door.

He looked out. A dozen couples were sitting on couches waiting for chances at tables. No waiter was in sight. Polland hurried out and closed the door, reached the staircase and went down it, and soon was safe in the street.

Turning the first corner, he glanced at a show window and observed his reflection there. He did not look pale and haggard, as he had thought; his appearance was not unnatural. With quick steps he walked back toward the hotel.

Polland wondered who on earth could have killed Cranton? How had it happened that Cranton had been dining alone in such a place? How many mysteries were connected with the affair?

Now that he came to consider it, he believed that the manner of the head waiter had been peculiar when he had suggested the private dining room. Had he done it purposely? Had it been a trap? Was it the intention to have Polland caught there and arrested, while some unknown murderer made his escape?

“It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before I went into that room,” Polland told himself. “And that waiter of mine didn’t act nervous at all; I don’t believe he knew the truth.”

He was nearing the hotel now, but he had decided what he would do. Hurrying to his room, he changed into an inconspicuous suit of clothes, packed his suit case and bag, and went down to the office. There he paid his bill without comment, checked the suit case at the check room, and went out upon the street again carrying the bag.

The bag was old and battered, and carried out the idea established by the suit he now was wearing. In it, Polland had put a few things that he needed most, things that were unmarked. He hurried to the nearest subway entrance, and caught an express for downtown. The danger in which he found himself made him cool and collected now.

He got off at a station, crossed over, and took another train for uptown. When he left the uptown train and ascended to the street, he turned down the first side street he reached, looked at the buildings and the signs, and finally entered a third-class hotel that had a dingy lobby and a none too clean front hall.

There he bargained for a room by the week, like a man who has to count his dollars. Having made the bargain, he signed the register “John Barton, Des Moines, Iowa.” He wrote in a disguised hand, like a man unused to writing much.

“So you’re from Des Moines!” said the clerk. “I came from there, too.”

Polland was panic-stricken for a moment. But he had an aunt living in Des Moines, and he had visited her a couple of weeks a few years before. He knew the main streets of the town, the principal buildings and parks and public works. He chatted with the clerk for a few minutes while waiting for a bell boy, and impressed upon the clerk that he did know something of Des Moines.

Up in the dingy room he had rented, Polland threw himself upon the bed and almost collapsed. The danger was over for the moment, he knew. Yet he could not remain in the room continually without causing comment, and he could not go out upon the street without facing the danger of arrest. And to be caught in such a hotel, dressed like a poor man and acting as one—that would be damning evidence against him. The web seemed to be drawing about him, entangling him fast in its meshes.

It already was late, and so Polland undressed and stretched himself on the bed. But he could not sleep. He saw before him continually the dead man in the private dining room, and the stained tablecloth. He wondered again how James Cranton had met death, and at whose hands.

Polland often had laughed at the idea that a man absolutely innocent of a crime could be convicted of that crime by an honest jury. but he knew now that it could be done. Were he arrested at the moment, there would be nothing but circumstantial evidence against him, and he knew that the chances were ten to one that he would be convicted. His only hope, it seemed, was that the real murderer would be arrested quickly, and would confess.

When the dawn came, Polland got up, walked to the window, and looked down upon the street. A few men were hurrying back and forth, like rats scurrying to their holes. Here and there a motor truck rumbled. Polland found himself wondering how many men had discovered their conditions of life entirely changed in the last twenty-four hours. He dressed quickly and went into the hall. The chambermaid already was there, preparing for her morning’s work,

“You can get in my room now,” he told her. “After I get some breakfast, I’ve got a lot of letters to write.”

He ate at a little, greasy restaurant not far away, and then walked around the block, and purchased copies of all the morning newspapers. With these under his arm, he returned to the hotel, asked for paper and envelopes, pen and ink, and retired to his room again.

The door locked securely and a towel hung over the keyhole, Polland sat down before the window and opened the first newspaper, almost afraid to look at it. He anticipated big articles about the slaying of James Cranton, expected to see his own name in print with the added statement that the police were looking for him. He was eager to read the description of him given there, and see whether it was accurate enough to cause him trouble around the hotel.

There was nothing on the front page, which surprised him when he remembered Cranton’s prominence in financial circles. He turned the pages rapidly, looking at every article, and finally threw the paper aside in disgust. It contained not a single word about the death of James Cranton.

Pollard turned feverishly to the others and went through them one at a time. Not one had the story of the crime. The only local violence chronicled was the assault on a sailor in Brooklyn.

Polland folded the papers carefully and put them before him on the table. Here was a peculiar state of affairs. Could a man like James Cranton be foully slain and not a newspaper mention the fact? And then Polland thought that he understood. The police were playing their little game. They had suppressed news of the crime, and so hoped to catch the murderer off guard.

Perhaps they thought that he, not reading of the slaying, would think that Cranton had not died, and would show himself. Perhaps they were suppressing the news for business reasons, because Cranton’s business associates wanted it kept quiet for a few hours, so they could protect themselves on the market.

The fact that the crime was not mentioned at all frightened Polland more than if it had been mentioned and a full description of himself given. He always feared an enemy that fought from the dark. To make certain he glanced through all the papers again, and once more tossed them aside—the crime had not been made public.

Remaining in a small hotel room, laboring under a mental strain, is not the easiest thing in the world. Polland glanced at his watch every few minutes, surprised to find that so little time had passed. His nervousness was increasing now, and he began to feel afraid again. It was the uncertainty that was bothering him the most.

He went out again about noon, ate another meal at the little, greasy restaurant, bought the early editions of the evening papers, and returned to his room.

Behind the locked door, he looked at these papers, expecting to see full accounts of the crime. But he found nothing.

“They’re hiding it—playing a game!” he declared to himself. “They think they’ll get me that way!”

He paced the floor of his room, back and forth from corner to corner, almost frantic, wondering what move to make next. Always he had had a horror of a fight in close quarters. He wanted to be out in the open, where he could see his enemies, wanted enemies whose methods he knew and understood.

The afternoon seemed endless, but finally the dusk came. Polland did not snap on the lights. He stood before the window and watched the street, the people hurrying to their homes, the trucks rattling past. The street lights were on now, but they gave to the narrow thoroughfare bordered with huge buildings an air of mystery.

Polland found himself feeling an overpowering desire to sneak down into the semigloom of the street, to scurry this way and that like some fear-stricken fugitive.

He thought of trying to get out of the city, too, and he knew that it would be foolishness to make the attempt, if the police were looking for him. No doubt they had a good description, and possibly even a photograph. James Cranton had had a dozen photographs of him, many of them snapshots, in which he was shown in all sorts of costumes. Polland often had read how New York was the easiest place in the world in which to hide, and the most difficult to leave. The New York police had a way of watching every possible avenue of escape.

His nervousness, anxiety, and dread had combined to slay his hunger. He could not think of eating dinner without thinking of that dinner in the restaurant the night before.

Finally, he pulled down the shade at the window and snapped on the lights. But it seemed that more terrors came to him in the light than there had come in the dark.

“I can’t stand this forever!” he exclaimed with a groan. “What are they doing? Why don’t they publish the story of the crime, and find the murderer? I’ve got to hide until they find him and make him confess!”

Fighting him from the dark—that was what they were doing! And Polland wanted to fight in the open. It wasn’t fair and square, this sort of fighting, he told himself. They were not giving him a fair chance.

Then there came to him the thought that perhaps it would be best to return uptown, claim his suit case, dress as usual, go to some good hotel and register under his correct name. Let them arrest him! At least he would know, then, what was going on. And he would be able to plan his campaign and fight. Despite the convicting evidence, possibly he could establish his innocence.

Yet he was desperately afraid that he could not. The restaurant waiter would say that he had returned with pie and coffee to find that Polland had run away and that the other man in the room was dead. The head waiter probably would say that Polland had not remained in the private dining room long enough to finish his meal, and that he had seemed agitated and excited when he took his leave. Oh, there would be plenty to come forward with damaging testimony!

He glanced through the newspapers again, but could not read for thinking of the position in which he was placed. He dared not go out upon the streets, and he hated to remain in his room; he was appalled at the thought of the long night before him, a night of uncertainty during which he would have no more knowledge than he possessed now.

As though in a vision, he saw himself arrested and charged with the crime, knew the long and agonizing wait for trial, passed through the endless hours of the legal hearing, with attorneys battling over each question and answer. He endured the long wait while the jury was out, heard the verdict of guilty pronounced—waited for the day that meant the electric chair.

“I can’t stand it!” he said despairingly. “I never did it—and I can’t stand this!”

He heard footsteps in the hall, and cringed against the wall, scarcely daring to breathe again until he knew that they had passed the door of his room. The suspense was driving him almost frantic.

Again he heard steps in the hall, and he stopped in the middle of the room, listening. This time the steps stopped. Polland’s breath began coming in gasps again. He sprang back against the wall, like a wild animal at bay.

Some one knocked at the door, and Polland cursed the fact that he had snapped on the lights. There was no way of escape; the one window was far above the ground, and there was no fire-escape landing at it.

The knock was repeated, louder. Polland knew that this was the crisis. It was the police, he supposed. In some manner, they had traced him.

Suddenly his nervousness passed away and he was as cool and collected as a fatalist, which perhaps he had become in that moment. He stepped quickly across the room and unlocked the door. Then he walked back a few steps, turned, and faced the door with his arms folded across his breast.

“Come in!” Richard Polland said.

Nothing happened for a moment, as though the person or persons on the other side of the door disliked stepping into the room and facing what was there.

“Well, come in!” Polland said.

The door was opened slowly, cautiously. A man looked into the room. He gave a grunt that sounded like an expression of satisfaction, and stepped inside.

Richard Polland showed his astonishment in his face now. Here was no detective come to arrest him for the murder of James Cranton. The man before him was the waiter who had served him in that private dining room of the restaurant.

ICHARD POLLAND stared at him in surprise a moment, and then dropped his hands to his sides.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” he asked. “I want to see you on business, sir,” the waiter said.

“Business? What business can you have with me? What sort of business.”

“Important and confidential business, sir. I want to talk to you about that little affair of last night, in the private dining room.”

“I fail to understand you,” Polland said.

“You left rather abruptly, sir.”

“Oh, I see!” Polland gasped. “I was obliged to do so, but I left twice the amount of the check”

“It is not that,” the waiter interrupted, “I have no complaint at all on that score, sir. You were indeed very liberal.”

“Well, then?” Polland asked.

“When I was clearing away the things, sir, I found that, by accident, the tablecloth was stained.”

“Just what do you mean?”

“May I sit down and talk to you, sir?”

“Yes, Close the door and take that chair.”

Polland indicated the chair in front of the table, and got another from the corner and put it at the end of the bed. He was as cool now as though dealing with an angry mine boss.

In some unaccountable manner, this man had traced him. Now he expected to blackmail Polland out of some absurd sum. Polland would let him talk, and meanwhile he would decide upon some plan.

“Well?” he questioned.

“I was sent by the management, sir, to arrive at an understanding with you,” the waiter said. “They sent me, because I served you and knew you by sight, and the head waiter on the lower floor could not remember which man you were.”

“Well?” Polland asked again, wondering at this long and rambling preamble.

“I think that we understand each other, sir. But possibly I had better make a straight statement.”

“I think that would be better,” said Polland.

“That other man in the private dining room came to the restaurant frequently, sir. We do not know his name, or anything about him. Sometimes he had money, and sometimes he was merely maintaining his ‘front,’ as the saying is. A waiter can tell such things, sir.”

“I suppose so.”

“Recently he seemed to have considerable money, for he spent it lavishly, though he always came to the restaurant alone. But the last week or so he has seemed to be nervous, agitated, as though expecting some bad luck. We imagined, sir, that he had been doing something crooked, and knew that he could not escape arrest.”

“Well?”

“Last night, sir, he came to the restaurant at his usual hour and insisted on having a private dining room. He said that he did not feel well and wanted to get where he scarcely could hear the music. The head waiter accommodated him, but said that it was unusual to give one of the private rooms to a party of one.”

“I understand,” Polland said, watching his man closely.

“He told the head waiter that there would be no objection if another gentleman was placed at the other table in the room, and so he was allowed to enter. I did not wait on him, as it happens, but the man who did says that he ordered lavishly. He seemed to want to sample every expensive dish on the bill of fare.

“Finally he called for his check. He gave the waiter twice the usual tip. The waiter remarked as he thanked him that he must have had good fortune in business, and he sneered and then laughed peculiarly. A quarter of an hour later, the waiter returned to clear away, and he found the man sprawled across the table, dead. He had shot himself through the throat.”

“Shot himself?” Polland exclaimed.

“Not the slightest doubt of it, sir. The revolver was on the floor, just where it had fallen out of his hand.”

With great difficulty, Richard Polland controlled the expression of his countenance and held his tongue, though a hundred questions bubbled at the tip of it. So James Cranston had killed himself! He told himself that he would have to be cautious now—perhaps it was a trap of some sort. It was possible that officers were listening in the hall. Or there might be a dictaphone in the room—Polland had heard of such things.

“Go ahead with your story,” he directed.

“The waiter rushed away to notify the manager, of course, sir,” the waiter continued, speaking in a lower tone. “Such things are kept quiet around a hotel or big restaurant, you understand. People go to a restaurant to enjoy themselves, and they cannot do that with the thought of violent death in their minds.

“Before the manager could get there, sir, the head waiter sent you up, and I began taking your order. Of course it was too late to remove the body then, and the chances were that you would pay no attention to the other man. So the manager directed that you be served, and if you made any remark about the other man you were to be told that he was asleep. I did not know this, sir—I was told, too, that the man was asleep and should not be disturbed. That was because they thought 1 would betray the fact that something was wrong, if I knew.

“When you rushed away as you did, they guessed at once that you had made the discovery of the dead man. The officer connected with the restaurant followed you, sir, to ascertain your identity and guard the interests of our employer.

“He observed you go back to your hotel and get your things, check a part of your luggage, and then come here and engage a room. You would have been visited sooner, sir, only our officer was trying to find out something about you, so we would know how to approach you.”

“And why should I be visited at all?” Polland asked.

“Because you share the secret, sir, and the manager wishes to—er—do the right thing by you, trusting to your honor that you will forget what you saw. If the story got out, sir, it would ruin the place, and there are thousands of dollars invested, of course. Our trade would drop off immediately. Persons could not listen to the music and dance and eat with the thought always in their minds that perhaps that poor devil had been sitting at their table.”

“I understand,” said Polland.

“So we are ready to do the right thing, sir, and trust to your honor that you’ll do the right thing.”

“And what does your manager call the right thing?”

“What suits you, sir?”

“You are making the deal,” Polland told him,

“I tell you frankly that our detective tried to find out all about you and your circumstances, so we would know how to approach you. He guessed that you were low in funds, that you were forced to come to this cheaper hotel, that you had rented a room in that swell hotel for a few hours so you could put on evening dress and pretend to be—er—in better circumstances financially than you really are.”

“This is interesting,” Polland said.

“Shall we say a thousand dollars, sir—and trust to your honor?”

“What do I do to get the thousand?”

“Merely forget that you saw an unfortunate dead man in that private dining room, sir. And any time you wish to have a little party, I am sure that your check will be returned receipted, sir—and a little change added, perhaps.”

“Are you a fool?” Polland asked. “Is your manager a fool? I have not said that I saw a dead man. But we’ll suppose that I did, for the sake of the argument. And in such case, what good would it do you to pay me a thousand dollars? I do not happen to have a large acquaintance among the restaurant patrons. And how can you hush it up merely by stopping my mouth? The police”

“Will know nothing of it, sir,” the waiter said.

“How can that be avoided? Where is the dead man now? How are you going to keep his suicide out of the newspapers?”

“As far as is known, save by us and yourself, there was no suicide and no dead man.”

“But the body?”

“It was an easy matter, sir, to have it dropped into the East River.”

He read the waiter’s meaning clearly; in plain words, there would be no corpse to embarrass anybody.

“And we merely want you satisfied,” the waiter said, “so that you’ll have a friendly feeling toward us and keep quiet about the affair. Men who have been going the pace and getting into difficulties are always committing suicide in restaurants and such places, causing annoyance and expense. What is your answer, sir?”

“Suppose I do not fall in with your plan?” Polland said. “Suppose that I carry the story to the police?”

“I’d advise against that, sir. In that case, we could say, of course, that the story was false and that you must be insane, Or, if we wished to undergo the notoriety and possibly be punished a trifle for destroying the body, we might say how you were alone in the room with the man and afterward we found you gone and the other man dead.”

Polland read his meaning clearly again; the calm statements of the waiter astounded him. He wanted to get the man away, to be alone to think.

“I suppose I might as well do the right thing and relieve the mind of your manager,” he said.

“Very well, sir. Here is the money in small bills. We trust to your honor not to take advantage of this again. But I was told to say that you are welcome to a meal at any time, you and your friends—and consider that the bill already is paid!”

The waiter put the money on the table, got up and moved to the door, stopped there and bowed, and went out.

As soon as the door had been closed, Polland sprang across the room and turned the key in the lock and put the towel over the keyhole again. Then, seated before the table, he tried to think what it all meant.

Had the waiter told the truth? Had James Cranton gone to the restaurant and committed suicide? Had he done it because of crooked deals and the knowledge that he knew he soon must pay the penalty for theft?

Polland could not force himself to believe it. A few days before he had been ready to think anything of Cranton, But now he found himself saying that Cranton would make no move, even a crooked move, that was not inside the law. Cranton would be too shrewd to make a mistake and put himself liable to a prison term.

If Cranton had killed himself for some reason, the waiter’s story of the East River explained why the account was not in the newspapers, of course. Yet Polland knew that Cranton was of such prominence that his mysterious disappearance would cause a sensation. It was possible, of course, that Cranton had become the slave of habits of which Polland did not know. Perhaps Cranton was in the habit of disappearing for days at a time, and his associates would think nothing of his absence for several days.

And then the thought came to Polland that perhaps this was all a trick, a trap. He picked up the money and examined some of the bills closely, and failed to find that they had been marked. But the whole thing was peculiar. Perhaps detectives had run him down, and were not sure enough to make an arrest. They might have sent the waiter there in an effort to get Polland to say something that could be used against him.

Terror came to Polland again with thoughts of the electric chair. He must get away, he told himself. He thrust the currency into one of his pockets, snapped out the lights, and crept to the door. Not a sound came from the hall.

Unlocking the door, he opened it, peered out, saw nobody. Now he reached for his hat and put it on, went out, closed and locked the door, passed through the hall to a rear stairway, and went down it rapidly and emerged in the side street.

He had no real object, except to change his quarters again, to hide, to get away. He had no idea where to go, but he entered the subway and caught an uptown express, and rode to Times Square. There he went up to the street, and found himself in the midst of the theater crowds.

A sort of false bravery came to him for a moment. He went to the “swell hotel” of which the waiter had spoken, and claimed his suit case at the check room. Out upon the street again, he went to one of the most fashionable hotels in the city and walked up to the desk.

“I want a suite,” he said. “Don’t take a look at the clothes I am wearing and turn me away. I’ve been out in the suburbs on business.”

The room clerk grinned at him, and gave him the suite. Polland remarked that he did not know when the remainder of his baggage would get in, and insisted on paying a week in advance and getting a receipt. He signed the register with another false name and address, and went up to his suite.

He was playing a different game now. If that waiter had been a spy, the police would be looking for Richard Polland in the cheap hotels and lodging houses. Well, he would fool them there! They might glance at the register, but they scarcely would prowl around this hotel searching for him. They would think such a place would be the last in which he could be found.

Polland had his bath, dressed in evening clothes, descended to the grillroom, and ate a generous meal. He was experiencing a feeling of bravado now. After eating, he strolled down the street for some distance, returned, and went up to his suite to bed.

So exhausted was he that he managed to sleep fairly well. He dreamed, though, and once he awoke with the perspiration standing out on his body in huge drops. The fear was growing on him again. He lived through every moment of the waiter’s visit, and wondered again what it meant.

Had James Cranton really committed suicide, or had he been murdered? Was Polland, by keeping his mouth shut, aiding some murderer to escape the consequences of his crime? Yet he had to keep his mouth shut. The waiter had pointed that out. Suppose he carried his story to the police! The restaurant people would point out that he had been in the room with Cranton, that he had rushed away, and that Cranton had been found dead. Then they would dig up that telegram—and be convinced that he had slain Cranton,

“I’ve got to do something to-morrow!” he reflected. “I can’t stand this another day. Judge Samble will be back—and I’ll have to telephone him.”

He slept again, and awoke late. Breakfast was served in his rooms, and he asked that the morning papers be sent up to him. After he had eaten his breakfast and the tray had been carried away, he began looking through the papers, wondering whether he would see the tale of Cranton’s death. He did not, but he found something far more startling. In every morning paper, on half a dozen pages of each, was an advertisement an inch wide. All read the same:

The great fear rushed upon Polland again now. So they were playing a trick, setting a trap for him! The advertisement could mean nothing else, he thought. They were asking him to communicate with Judge Samble concerning James Cranton. He supposed that Samble had been called back to town, that his office girl had reported that Polland had telephoned while he was gone. And now Samble, too, was trying to catch him.

But the uncertainty of it was the worst. Polland wanted to know exactly how matters stood, so as he could make some effort to clear himself. There was but one way, he decided. He did not dare try to leave the city, and he could not remain in the hotel suite forever. He would go down the street to some cigar store, enter a telephone booth there, and telephone the phone call, it would not endanger him.

Having decided upon that course, Polland finished dressing quickly and hurried down the hall to the elevator. He descended to the ground floor and started through the lobby. He had almost reached the street door, when he heard a voice behind him.

“Polland! Polland, wait a moment!”

Polland whirled at the sound. Judge Samble was within a dozen feet of him, hurrying toward him through the crowd, waving his hand at him.

Trapped, was he? Polland turned and plunged toward the door. The judge called after him again, got through the crowd, and went in pursuit. But the judge was considerably older than Polland. Polland was through the door like a flash, almost bowled over two men starting to enter the hotel, and hurried down the street through the crowd.

Fear made him frantic now. He did not know, of course, that his meeting with Judge Samble was an accident, that the judge had been making the rounds of the hotels and inspecting the registers. He imagined that they had tracked him down, that the judge was not alone, but in the company of officers of the law.

The crowd was dense at the corner, and Polland, suddenly grown cautious, the first fright over, slowed down so that he would not attract attention. He hurried along the street toward Times Square again.

And what was he going to do now? Could he go on changing hotels continually and hope not to be tracked down sooner or later? If they were after him, he could not hope to escape from the city. And he could not endure hiding in some dingy room day after day.

Suddenly some of his old courage returned to him, and he stopped on a corner. “I’ll fight it out!’ he told himself. “I’ll go back and face them! I’ll tell the true story, and I’ll come out of it all right!”

It would be better than playing fugitive, he decided. He would fight to the last ditch, spend his last cent trying to clear himself. He faced about and started to return to the hotel. If they were not there, he would go to his suite and telephone the judge’s office, and leave word that he would remain in the suite until the judge called him. If they were there, he would face the charge, declare his innocence, tell his story, and trust to luck.

He felt the better now that he had made the decision. He even stopped at a corner cigar store, purchased a cigar, lighted it, and went on up the street smoking. Now he was only a block from the entrance of the hotel, but he did not slacken his pace.

Stopping just inside the hotel to look around, he saw Judge Samble at the desk, speaking to one of the clerks.

Polland went straight across the lobby toward him. The judge turned, saw him, and hastened in his direction, There was a smile on the judge’s face, and his hand was outstretched.

Polland took the hand, scarcely knowing what he was doing, not even wondering that it was offered.

“Richard, we must talk!” the judge said. “I am glad that you came back after running away from me. I know that your blood is hot, my boy. I knew your father well, and I know his son.”

“I—I” Polland stammered.

“Come over in the corner, where we’ll not be overheard,” the judge said. “Here we are! Now, Richard, I have been looking for you since early last night. I was out of town, but a message called me back.”

“Judge, you don’t believe?”

“Let me do the talking, boy. This foolishness must stop, and at once. And it will stop when I give you the explanation. I was badly frightened, Richard. I was afraid that you would be able to do something before I could stop you—something that would ruin your entire life. You would think yourself justified, no doubt, but what a shock you would have had when you knew the truth.”

“I—I don’t understand,” Polland stammered,

“I know the letter you received, Richard. And your first thought was that James Cranton, your old friend, had sold you out. Then you sent that telegram, and started East to ‘get’ him.”

“I—I sent the telegram, yes.”

“Thank heaven that I have found you in time. I want you to come to the third floor with me, now—to a room there. And I want your word of honor that you will make no violent move until matters have been explained.”

“I promise you that, sir,” Polland said,

Mystified, he followed the judge to the elevator, and they went up to the third floor. They hurried along a hall, and the judge knocked. The door was opened, and they stepped into the room, And Richard Polland recoiled, a cry on his lips.

“Remember your promise!” the judge said warningly.

But Polland was not thinking of promises. He rubbed at his eyes, leaned against the wall, fright in his face again. James Cranton was standing before him.

“You—you” Polland stuttered.

“Let me do the explaining,” the judge said. “When your telegram was received, James made an investigation and discovered some interesting facts. He tried to get you with a message, but you already had started for New York. You were coming with an old six-gun in your hand to kill the man you thought had robbed you. And he had not.

“Every effort was made to get you when you arrived, to explain the thing to you before you could do something you would regret later. You managed to slip into town without being seen So James, though not afraid to meet any man, played the part of discretion. Here he came, and here he decided to remain until you could be found and matters explained to you. We have imagined you prowling through the city with a gun, trying to find him and shoot him down, and we have been searching for you, to tell you the truth.”

“But you—Cranton!” Polland exclaimed in astonishment. “You—alive and well! Tell me, in Heaven’s name—what is this truth of which you speak?”

“I’ll explain,” said the judge. “Some financial enemies of James attempted his downfall. They managed to find a poor dupe who was his double. That is not strange—scientists tell us that every human being has a perfect double. This dupe began going the pace, using the name of James Cranton. He entered popular restaurants, being well supplied with funds, and he almost wrecked James’ reputation. He even attended a couple of business conferences and passed himself off as James Cranton and learned things of importance.

“Then those who were employing him decided that they would strike at James harder, that perhaps they would have his life taken. This dupe managed to get into James’ private office on a day James was not there, and he dictated to one of the stenographers the letter you received. Nothing was known of it until your telegram was received and an investigation started.”

“Then” Polland began,

“Wait, my boy. These men knew you, and guessed that when you received that letter you would rush to New York and start shooting. But their game was discovered. The most of them, some of them men of prominence, will be in jail before night. Only our detectives have been unable to find their dupe, James’ double. Undoubtedly, he has become frightened and has run away.”

“Or facing prison, has killed himself,” Polland suggested.

For he understood it all now, of course. A sigh of relief came from him. He looked across at James Cranton, and found that Cranton was smiling at him.

“I’m a bit ashamed of you for thinking that I’d be a crook and rob an old pal, Dick,” Cranton said. “And I’ll confess that I was scared for a time. I expected every minute to be plugged!”

“The fact of the matter is,” said Polland, “that you were hiding from me and I was hiding from you. I regretted that telegram and was afraid that you’d shoot me before I had a chance to ask you for an explanation. So I slipped off the train, intending to get the judge and have him arrange a meeting. Then—things began to happen. I’ve got some story to tell you later.”

“As far as business is concerned,” Cranton said, “I can tell you that you’re due to be a millionaire, Dick, in short order. We’ll have to celebrate.”

“Let me make one stipulation,” Polland said. “We’ll celebrate at a certain restaurant I know, where I can get special rates. And I want to see the expression in the face of a certain waiter when I walk in with you. I’ll not be surprised if he throws a fit!”