The Cab of the Sleeping Horse Part 8

Harleston laughed. "You are obsessed with the notion that I have something of yours, Mr. Crenshaw."

"_The letter!_" exclaimed Crenshaw.

"That envelope is addressed to me, sir; it's not the one you seem to want."

"I suppose the flowers are also addressed to you," Crenshaw derided, advancing. "Get back, sir,--I'll get the envelope myself."

"My dear man," Harleston expostulated, retreating slowly toward the door of the living-room, "I'll let you see the envelope; I've not the slightest objection. Put up your gun, man; I'm not dangerous."

"You're not so long as I've got the drop on you!" Crenshaw laughed sneeringly. "Get back, man, get back; to the far side of the table--the far side, do you hear--while I examine the envelope yonder beside the roses. The roses are very familiar, Mr. Harleston. I've seen them before."

Harleston, retreating hastily, backed into a chair and fell over it.

"All right, stay there, then!" said Crenshaw, and reached for the letter.

As he did so, Harleston's slippered foot shot out and drove hard into the other's stomach. With a grunt Crenshaw doubled up from pain. The next instant, Harleston caught his wrist and the struggle was on.

It was not for long, however. Crenshaw was outweighed and outstrengthed; and Harleston quickly bore him to the floor, where a sharp blow on the fingers sent the automatic flying.

"If it were not for spoiling the devil's handiwork, my fine friend, I'd smash your face," Harleston remarked.

"Smash it!" the other panted. "I'll promise--to smash yours--at the first opportunity."

"Which latter smas.h.i.+ng won't be until some years later," Harleston retorted, as he turned Crenshaw over. Bearing on him with all his weight, he loosed his own pajama-cord and tied the man's hands behind him. Next he kicked off his pajama trousers, and with them bound Crenshaw's ankles. Then he dragged him to a chair and plunked him into it, securing him there by a strap.

"It's scarcely necessary to gag you," he remarked pleasantly. "In your case, an outcry would be embarra.s.sing only to yourself."

"What do you intend to do with me?" Crenshaw demanded.

"Ultimately, you mean. I have not decided. It may depend on what I find."

"Find?"

Harleston nodded. "In your pockets."

"You dog!" Crenshaw burst out, straining at his bonds. "You miserable whelp! What do you think to find?"

"I'm not thinking," Harleston smiled; "it isn't necessary to speculate when one has all the stock, you know." Then his face hardened.

"One who comes into another's residence in the dead of night, revolver in hand and violence in his intention, can expect no mercy and should receive none. You're an ordinary burglar, Crenshaw and as such the law will view you if I turn you over to the police. You think I found a letter in an abandoned cab at 18th and Ma.s.sachusetts Avenue early this morning, and instead of coming like a respectable man and asking if I have it and proving your property--do you hear, proving _your_ property--you play the burglar and highwayman. Evidently the letter isn't yours, and you haven't any right or claim to it. I have been injected into this matter; and having been injected I intend to ascertain what can be found from your papers. Who you are; what your object; who are concerned beside yourself; and anything else I can discover. You see, you have the advantage of me; you know who I am, and, I presume, my business; I know nothing of you, nor of your business, nor what this all means; though I might guess some things. It's to obviate guessing, as far as possible, that I am about to examine such evidence as you may have with you."

Crenshaw was so choked with his anger that for a moment he merely sputtered--then he relapsed into furious silence, his dark eyes glowing with such hate that Harleston paused and asked a bit curiously:

"Why do you take it so hard? It's all in the game--and you've lost.

You're a poor sort of sport, Crenshaw. You'd be better at ping-pong or croquet. This matter of--letters, and cabs, is far beyond your calibre; it's not in your cla.s.s."

"We haven't reached the end of the matter, my adroit friend," gritted Crenshaw. "My turn will come, never fear."

"A far day, monsieur, a far day!" said Harleston lightly. "Meanwhile, with your permission, we will have a look at the contents of your pockets. First, your pocketbook."

He unb.u.t.toned the other's coat, put in his hand, and drew out the book.

"Attend, please," said he, "so you can see that I replace every article."

Crenshaw's only answer was a contemptuous shrug.

A goodly wad of yellow backs of large denominations, and some visiting cards, no two of which bore the same name, were the contents of the pocketbook.

"You must have had some difficulty in keeping track of yourself,"

Harleston remarked, as he made a note of the names.

Then he returned the bills and the cards to the book, and put it back in Crenshaw's pocket.

"It's unwise to carry so much money about you," he remarked; "it induces spending, as well as provokes attack."

"What's that to you?" replied Crenshaw angrily.

"Nothing whatever--it's merely a word of advice to one who seems to need it. Now for the other pockets."

The coat yielded nothing additional; the waist-coat, only a few matches and an open-faced gold watch, which Harleston inspected rather carefully both inside and out; the trousers, a couple of handkerchiefs with the initial C in the corner, some silver, and a small bunch of keys--and in the fob pocket a crumpled note, with the odour of carnations clinging to it.

Harleston glanced at Crenshaw as he opened the note--and caught a sly look in his eyes.

"Something doing, Crenshaw?" he queried.

Another shrug was Crenshaw's answer--and the sly look grew into a sly smile.

The note, apparently in a woman's handwriting, was in French, and contained five words and an initial:

_a l'aube du jour.

M._

Harleston looked at it long enough to fix in his mind the penmans.h.i.+p and to mark the little eccentricities of style. Then he folded it and put it in Crenshaw's outside pocket.

"Thank you!" said he, with an amused smile.

"You forgot to look in the soles of my shoes?" Crenshaw jeered.

"Someone else will do that," Harleston replied.

"Someone else?" Crenshaw inflected.

"The police always search prisoners, I believe."

"My G.o.d, you don't intend to turn me over to the police?" Crenshaw exclaimed.

"Why not?" And when Crenshaw did not reply: "Wherein are you different from any other felon taken red-handed--except that you were taken twice in the same night, indeed?"