The Mystery of the Private Dining Room

Chapter I. The First Shock

SITTING 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 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.”

Chapter II. Horror

SITTING 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!

Chapter III. The Web Of Circumstance

FOR 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.