The Victorian Mystery Megapack: 27 Classic Mystery Tales. Эдгар Аллан По
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more readily observe the man’s movements, and breathing pianissimo lest he in turn should observe mine, I watched him as he climbed. Up he came as silently as the midnight mouse upon a soft carpet—up past the Jorkins apartments on the second floor; up stealthily by the Tinkletons’ abode on the third; up past the fire-escape Italian garden of little Mrs. Persimmon on the fourth; up past the windows of the disagreeable Garraways’ kitchen below mine, and then, with the easy grace of a feline, zip! he silently landed within reach of my hand on my own little iron veranda, and craning his neck to one side, peered in through the open window and listened intently for two full minutes.
“Humph!” whispered my inner consciousness to itself. “He is the coolest thing I’ve seen since last Christmas left town. I wonder what he is up to? There’s nothing in my apartment worth stealing, now that my wife and children are away, unless it be my Jap valet, Nogi, who might make a very excellent cab driver if I could only find words to convey to his mind the idea that he is discharged.”
And then the visitor, apparently having correctly assured himself that there was no one within, stepped across the window sill and vanished into the darkness of my kitchen. A moment later I too entered the window in pursuit, not so close a one, however, as to acquaint him with my proximity. I wanted to see what the chap was up to; and also being totally unarmed and ignorant as to whether or not he carried dangerous weapons, I determined to go slow for a little while. Moreover, the situation was not wholly devoid of novelty, and it seemed to me that here at last was abundant opportunity for a new sensation. As he had entered, so did he walk cautiously along the narrow bowling alley that serves for a hallway connecting my drawing-room and library with the dining-room, until he came to the library, into which he disappeared. This was not reassuring to me, because, to tell the truth, I value my books more than I do my plate, and if I were to be robbed I should much have preferred his taking my plated plate from the dining-room than any one of my editions-deluxe sets of the works of Marie Corelli, Hall Caine, and other standard authors from the library shelves. Once in the library, he quietly drew the shades at the windows thereof to bar possible intruding eyes from without, turned on the electric lights, and proceeded to go through my papers as calmly and coolly as though they were his own. In a short time, apparently, he found what he wanted in the shape of a royalty statement recently received by me from my publishers, and, lighting one of my cigars from a bundle of brevas in front of him, took off his coat and sat down to peruse the statement of my returns. Simple though it was, this act aroused the first feeling of resentment in my breast, for the relations between the author and his publishers are among the most sacred confidences of life, and the peeping Tom who peers through a keyhole at the courtship of a young man engaged in wooing his fiancée is no worse an intruder than he who would tear aside the veil of secrecy which screens the official returns of a “best seller” from the public eye. Feeling, therefore, that I had permitted matters to proceed as far as they might with propriety, I instantly entered the room and confronted my uninvited guest, bracing myself, of course, for the defensive onslaught which I naturally expected to sustain. But nothing of the sort occurred, for the intruder, with a composure that was nothing short of marvelous under the circumstances, instead of rising hurriedly like one caught in some disreputable act, merely leaned farther back in the chair, took the cigar from his mouth, and greeted me with:
“Howdy do, sir. What can I do for you this beastly hot night?”
The cold rim of a revolver-barrel placed at my temple could not more effectually have put me out of business than this nonchalant reception. Consequently I gasped out something about its being the sultriest 47th of August in eighteen years, and plumped back into a chair opposite him. “I wouldn’t mind a Remsen cooler myself,” he went on, “but the fact is your butler is off for tonight, and I’m hanged if I can find a lemon in the house. Maybe you’ll join me in a smoke?” he added, shoving my own bundle of brevas across the table. “Help yourself.”
“I guess I know where the lemons are,” said I. “But how did you know my butler was out?”
“I telephoned him to go to Philadelphia this afternoon to see his brother Yoku, who is ill there,” said my visitor. “You see, I didn’t want him around tonight when I called. I knew I could manage you alone in case you turned up, as you see you have, but two of you, and one a Jap, I was afraid might involve us all in ugly complications. Between you and me, Jenkins, these Orientals are pretty lively fighters, and your man Nogi particularly has got jiu-jitsu down to a pretty fine point, so I had to do something to get rid of him. Our arrangement is a matter for two, not three, anyhow.”
“So,” said I, coldly. “You and I have an arrangement, have we? I wasn’t aware of it.”
“Not yet,” he answered. “But there’s a chance that we may have. If I can only satisfy myself that you are the man I’m looking for, there is no earthly reason that I can see why we should not come to terms. Go on out and get the lemons and the gin and soda, and let’s talk this thing over man to man like a couple of good fellows at the club. I mean you no harm, and you certainly don’t wish to do any kind of injury to a chap who, even though appearances are against him, really means to do you a good turn.”
“Appearances certainly are against you, sir,” said I, a trifle warmly, for the man’s composure was irritating. “A disappearance would be more likely to do you credit at this moment.”
“Tush, Jenkins!” he answered. “Why waste breath saying self-evident things? Here you are on the verge of a big transaction, and you delay proceedings by making statements of fact, mixed in with a cheap wit which, I must confess, I find surprising, and so obvious as to be visible even to the blind. You don’t talk like an author whose stuff is worth ten cents a word—more like a penny-a-liner, in fact, with whom words are of such small value that no one’s the loser if he throws away a whole dictionary. Go out and mix a couple of your best Remsen coolers, and by the time you get back I’ll have got to the gist of this royalty statement of yours, which is all I’ve come for. Your silver and books and love letters and manuscripts are safe from me. I wouldn’t have ’em as a gift.”
“What concern have you with my royalties?” I demanded.
“A vital one,” said he. “Mix the coolers, and when you get back I’ll tell you. Go on. There’s a good chap. It’ll be daylight before long, and I want to close up this job if I can before sunrise.”
What there was in the man’s manner to persuade me to compliance with his wishes, I am sure I cannot say definitely. There was a cold, steely glitter in his eye, for one thing. With it, however, was a strengthfulness of purpose, a certain pleasant masterfulness, that made me feel that I could trust him, and it was to this aspect of his nature that I yielded. There was something frankly appealing in his long, thin, ascetic looking face, and I found it irresistible.
“All right,” said I with a smile and a frown to express the conflicting quality of my emotions. “So be it. I’ll get the coolers, but you must remember, my friend, that there are coolers and coolers, just as there are jugs and jugs. The kind of jug that remains for you will depend upon the story you have to tell when I get back, so you’d better see that it’s a good one.”
“I am not afraid, Jenkins, old chap,” he said with a hearty laugh as I rose. “If this royalty statement can prove to me that you are the literary partner I need in my business, I can prove to you that I’m a good man to tie up to—so go along with you.”
With this he lighted a fresh cigar and turned to a perusal of my statement, which, I am glad to say, was a good one, owing to the great success of my book, Wild Animals I Have Never Met—the seventh-best seller at Rochester, Watertown, and Miami in June and July, 1905—while I went out into the dining-room and mixed the coolers. As you may imagine, I was not long at it, for my curiosity over my visitor lent wings to my corkscrew, and in five minutes I was back with the tempting beverages in the tall glasses, the lemon curl giving it the vertebrate appearance that all stiff drinks should have, and the ice tinkling refreshingly upon the sultry air.
“There,” said I, placing his glass before him. “Drink hearty, and then to business. Who are you?”
“There is my card,” he replied, swallowing a goodly half of the cooler and