CHAPTER XVII

BLIND TRAILS

MIND you,” Barrison went on hastily, “there are a hundred explanations of a thing like that; it isn’t, strictly speaking, evidence at all. Only—I couldn’t help noticing! Now, Tony, I want you to go home and go to bed—see?”

“It’s lucky you do!” said Tony.

“Shut up! Go to bed and sleep your fool head off; and then—get back there to the Golden Arms, and find out who saw Miss Legaye come in last night; what time it was, whether she seemed excited, and—what she wore! That last is the most important. Make up to the maid. You can bribe, torture, or make love to her; I don’t care which. Only find out everything you can. Get me?”

Tony grunted, and departed.

Jim turned his face toward Forty-fourth Street. He knew that John Carlton usually breakfasted at the Lambs’ Club, and he needed his help. Also, he thought tenderly of the prospect of a mixed grill. Barrison could get along with very little sleep, when he was on a case, but he had to have food. Carlton was at breakfast, devouring, with about equally divided attention, bacon and eggs and the morning papers. He welcomed Jim with much excitement and a flood of slang.

“Well, what do you know about this, Barrison? I can’t seem to get a line on myself to-day. Am I the whole cheese, or am I an also ran? Do I stack up as the one best bet, or do I crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after me? Sit down!”

“Talk English!” suggested Barrison good-naturedly as he obeyed. “Order me some breakfast, first, and then tell me what you’re talking about.”

Carlton, having with difficulty been prevented from ordering a meal adequate to the needs of a regiment on march, condescended to translate his emotions.

“You see, it’s this way,” he explained, munching toast and marmalade. “That poor guy going out like that—I never liked him, but it was a rotten way to finish, and I’d like to broil whoever did it alive—leaves me, so to speak, guessing. My play is off, for the present anyway, and I’ve been spending my royalties already. On the other hand, I’m getting some simply priceless advertising! Everybody will be after me, I guess, and all the beautiful leading men will be thirsting to play the part in which poor Mortimer achieved eternal fame by getting killed. I may sound flippant, but I’m not; it’s the only way I can express myself—except on paper! Now, where do I get off? Am I a racing car or a flivver?”

“You’ll probably find out soon enough,” Jim told him. “Meanwhile, I want your help.”

“Nothing doing!” said Carlton energetically. “Meanwhile, I want yours! I can live just long enough for you to drink that cup of coffee without talking, but after that it’s only a matter of seconds before I cash in, if you don’t tell me everything that happened last night. Beastly of you and the governor not to let me back, so I could be in on what was doing.”

Barrison told him what had happened. He was not too completely communicative, however; he liked the playwright, and had no reason to distrust him, but he knew that this case was likely to be a big one, and a hard one, and he had no mind to take outsiders into his confidence unless it was strictly necessary.

“And now,” he said, “I’ve done my part, and, I hope, saved you from an early grave shared by the cat who died of curiosity. Come across, and do yours!”

Carlton grinned. “Talking slang so as to make yourself intelligible to my inferior intelligence? All right; fire away! What can I do for you?”

Barrison told him that he wanted to find out about a wild West show called by the name of its manager, Blinkey or Blankey.

Carlton scowled at him wonderingly. “Now, what sort of a game’s that?” he demanded. “What has a wild West show to do with my perfectly good play——”

“Never mind. Can you find out for me?”

The writer shook his head.

“Not in a million years. I don’t know anything about the profession except where it happens to hit me. Why don’t you tackle the governor? He knows everything and everybody.”

“I may yet. But it isn’t anything that really concerns him. And I don’t imagine he’s very cheery this morning.”

“I believe that little thing! It’s beastly hard lines for him! Tell you what I’ll do, Barrison. I’ll give you a card to Ted Lucas. He’s a decent sort of chap, on the dramatic department of the New York Blaze. If he can’t help you, maybe there’ll be some one in his office who can.”

“Thanks. That’s just what I want.”

Armed with the card, Barrison said good-by and departed. He met two or three men whom he knew on his way out. One and all were talking about the murder. He was not known to have any connection with the case, so he escaped being held up for particulars, but he heard enough to show him that this was going to be the sensation of the whole theatrical world.

It was not yet ten o’clock, and Dukane would not be in his office, so he went downtown to hunt up Ted Lucas in the roaring offices of the Blaze.

He had to wait a bit, with the deafening clatter of typewriters, and the jangle of telephones beating about his ears. Then a keen-faced but very quiet young man rather foppishly dressed, and with sleek hair which looked as though it had been applied with a paint brush, appeared.

“I’m Lucas,” he explained politely. “Wanted to see me?”

Barrison knew reporters pretty well, and this one was typical. The detective wasted as few words as possible, but stated what he was after. Lucas shook his head doubtfully.

“Never heard of any such show,” he said. “I’ll have a look at the files, though. My chief is rather a shark for keeping records of past performances. Will you look in a bit later—or phone?”

“I’ll phone,” said Barrison, preparing to leave. He had not expected any rapid results, yet he felt vaguely disappointed. Or was it because he was tired? “See here,” he said impulsively. “You cover a lot of theatrical assignments, don’t you?”

“Quite a lot,” said the reporter indifferently, eying him.

“Isn’t there anything playing here in town now with a—a wild West feature? Anything that includes a shooting stunt, or cowboy atmosphere, or—or that?”

Barrison could not help clinging to that faint clew concerning Mortimer’s connection with the “daredevil” outfit, out West.

Ted Lucas considered. “Why, no,” he said. “I don’t know of any. You wouldn’t mean a single act, like Ritz the Daredevil, would you?”

“Ritz the Daredevil!” Barrison leaped at the name. Of course, it might be nonsense, but there was something that looked like just the shadow of a coincidence. “Who is she?”

“Just a crack shot, a girl who plays at a bum vaudeville theater this week. I don’t know why she calls herself a ‘daredevil.’ It isn’t such a daring stunt to shoot at a target. But she’s clever with a gun, I understand. I’m to ‘cover’ her act to-night.”

Barrison thought quickly. It was only the ghost of a trail, but——

“You’re going to see her to-night?”

“Yes. Going to see the show from the front and interview her afterward. She’s through with her stunt, I hear, about nine thirty. It isn’t a usual thing, but Coyne—who owns the theater—has a bit of a pull with us; advertising, you know; and we usually give one of his acts a write-up every week.”

“Might I come along?”

“You? Sure thing! But I warn you, it’ll be an awful thing! It’s one of those continuous affairs. Well, have it your own way. If you’ll meet me at the theater, I can get you in on my pass. Eight?”

“Eight it is.”

Barrison waited for directions as to the whereabouts of Coyne’s Music Hall, of which he had never heard, and took his departure. He went into a telephone booth to call up Lowry, but found that the inspector would not be at his office until the afternoon. Then he went uptown again, and, taking a deep breath and a big brace with it, went to call on Max Dukane.

He had no real reason for dreading an interview with him; the manager had always been most courteous to him. Yet he did feel a shade of apprehension. Something told him that the Dukane of yesterday would not be quite the Dukane of to-day. And it wasn’t only the tragedy which had brought him so much financial loss which was to be considered. Ever since Willie Coster had intimated that Dukane had a secret reason for keeping dark the conditions under which he had come across Mortimer, Barrison had felt uneasy in regard to him. He had always recognized in the manager a man of immense power and authority. If he had a sufficient reason, he could guess that he would be immensely unscrupulous as well.

However, at a little after half past eleven o’clock, he presented himself at the great man’s office.

This time, though there were half a dozen people ahead of him, he did not have to wait at all. The fact surprised him, but when he had been admitted to Dukane’s presence, he understood it better. He had been thus speedily summoned in order to be the more speedily dismissed.

“Hello, Barrison,” said Dukane crisply. “Anything I can do for you?”

He sat at his desk like an iron image; his face was hard and cold. He did not look so much angry as stern. It was clear that, in his own stony fashion, he had flung yesterday into the discard, and was not any too pleased to be reminded of it.

Barrison was not asked to sit down, so stood by the desk, feeling rather like a small boy reporting to his teacher.

“Yes, Mr. Dukane,” he said quietly, “there is. I’ve come about the case.”

“Case?”

“The murder of Alan Mortimer.”

Dukane raised his heavy eyebrows. “I am not interested in it.”

“Mr. Dukane, I can scarcely believe that. Mortimer was your star, under your management; I should imagine that the disaster to him must concern you very closely.”

Dukane laid down a paper cutter which he had been holding in his hand.

“Concern me?” he said, in a hard, disagreeable tone. “Yes, it does concern me. It concerns me to the tune of several thousands of dollars. The part was especially worked up for him; there is no one available to take it at a moment’s notice. But there my concern begins and ends. So far as his murderer goes——”

“Yes, that is what we are chiefly interested in.”

“I am not interested in it. Mortimer was an investment, so far as I was concerned. It is an investment which has failed. I have other things to think of that seem to me more important—and more profitable.”

“But you engaged me, professionally, to——”

“You will receive your check.”

Barrison flushed indignantly. “Mr. Dukane! You cannot think I meant that. But if you were sufficiently interested to engage me——”

Dukane raised his hand and stopped him. “Barrison,” he said, in short, clear-cut accents, “let us understand each other. I engaged you to keep Alan Mortimer alive. Alive, he was worth a good deal to me. Dead, he is worth nothing. I was perfectly willing to pay to protect my property; but having lost it, I wash my hands of the matter.”

“Don’t you really want to see his murderer brought to justice?”

“I really care nothing about it.”

“Then you are not even willing to help the authorities?”

“Help?” The manager raised his head haughtily, and stared at him with cold eyes. “What have I to do with it? What should I have to say that could help?”

“You might tell us something about Mr. Mortimer’s life—something that could point toward a possible enemy. You know as well as I do that when a man dies under such circumstances, it is necessary for the officers engaged on the case to know as much of his life and antecedents as possible. In this case, no one seems to know anything except you, Mr. Dukane. That’s why I am obliged to come to you.”

“I know nothing about his life, nor about his antecedents. I picked him up in a Western town, stranded, after his show had gone to pieces.”

“What was the name of the show?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Now, if you will be good enough to let me get on with my morning’s business——”

“I shall certainly do so,” said Barrison quietly, as he turned away. “But I must warn you, Mr. Dukane, that I believe you are making a mistake. The detective force will find out what they have to find out. If you have any reason——”

“Reason?”

“I say, if you have any reason for wanting them not to do so, you would do much better to forestall them, and give them your help frankly to begin with.”

“Is that all?”

“That is quite all, Mr. Dukane.”

“Very well, Barrison. As I say, you will receive your check in due time. Barrison——”

The detective turned at the door, and waited for him to go on. Dukane was sitting with his head somewhat bent; after a moment he lifted it, and said, in a gentler tone than he had used before during the interview:

“I have given you the impression of being a hard man. It is a truthful impression; I am a hard man. I should not be where I am to-day, had I not been hard, very hard. But if I have spoken to you with bitterness, you will remember, please, that I feel no bitterness toward you. I like you, on the contrary. But in my life there is no place for individual likes or dislikes. Long ago, I decided to play a great game for great stakes. I have won at that game; I shall continue to win. Nothing else counts with me; nothing! That is all. Good-by, Barrison!”

“Good-by, sir,” the younger man said, and went out of the big, rich, inner office, where even the noise and bustle of the world came softly, lest anything disturb the imperious brain brooding and planning at the desk.

It was in a very sober mood that Barrison reached Miss Templeton’s hotel at luncheon time, and sent up his card.