When the Winner Lost

Front matter

When the Winner Lost

by Anthony M. Rud

I—Employed—For What?

CHAPTER I.

EMPLOYED—FOR WHAT?

I, SELWYN TRASK, was exactly five days old when I missed my first meal. This, in the case of the normal, healthy youngster would have occasioned a storm of protest. Immediately nurses would have scurried about, a bottle of milk would have been sterilized and warmed, and soon the difficulty would have met. In my extremity, however, I made no protest; there was nothing I could do but notch my belt tighter, bite the bubble of a drinking fountain for a pint or so of “Lake Michigan straight,” and whistle with what cheer I could summon. Chicago, on a frosty evening in late October, is singularly unconcerned over the fate of any penniless male, no matter what his age.

That evening I faced the raw lake wind until ten o'clock. Then I turned in on a straight-backed bench in the La Salle Street Station. Next evening I was in exactly the same predicament, only much hungrier. Even good thick water of the kind Chicago drinks does not assuage hunger effectually.

It was not so much the lack of food that bothered me, though. In the fourteen months immediately preceding my rebirth as Selwyn Trask I had passed up the officers' mess many times without a regret. Once, when Pershing's pincers were closing about St. Mihiel, I had spent thirty-two hours in the air, only coming down occasionally for fresh gas—and once for a new gunner, my pal getting nicked by a fragment of H. E. shell.

I knew what going hungry meant, but out there it was different. A chap was certain that if he had a mouth and stomach left when he got down to the airdrome, hot grub would be waiting and a fresh pack of fags to take the acrid taste of machine-gun smoke out of his mouth. Here no one cared the slightest. True, if one collapsed from hunger an ambulance came and made its belated ministration. I found myself figuring morbidly on how many days my disgustingly healthy constitution would make me hold on before I could claim rightfully this sanctuary in the county hospital. I had heard of fanatics existing for forty days without food, but even my fevered imagination could not picture me stalking about the Loop for that length of time. From the bottom of my heart I envied Jules, the deaf-mute who used to scrub the floor of our airdrome mess-room. He at least ate heartily and commanded the respect of the men around him. I could do neither, thanks to Morris. A detective agency had trailed him to Chicago for me, but there he had vanished.

When I am alone with thoughts of revenge they work me up to a white heat of anger. I stride along, faster and faster, my fists and teeth clenched, and then suddenly I remember the absurdity of letting such emotions master, and let down. Once on that last evening of hunger I had been considering what I should do to Morris if I should come upon him suddenly. I must have covered half a mile at a rapid pace before I brought up short. In the lighted mirror of a jeweler's window I saw a white face staring back at me. It was mine, but I saw that I was changing fast. During the war I had known how to smile, even when Archie was bracketing around my plane, but the set mask of anger startled me. It looked older than I should look, and the light line on my cheek I had received during student days at Prague stood up plainly as a scar. The face I saw might smile, but that smile would be the grim defiance of a gray wolf cornered by a dozen huskies. In the revulsion of feeling that followed immediately I wondered what I would look like in a week, in a fortnight, but at that moment I recognized the truth. The consuming fury that had dominated me, keeping me from all thoughts of retrieving my fortunes by simply going to work in a sensible manner, was weakness rather than strength. I had been a fool to trust Morris, but that chapter had ended. Now I was on the bottom rung. I would have to try climbing, with nothing but my own ability to aid me.

For a block I walked, wondering how I could make a start. All the stores were closed, of course. At any rate, I could ill afford to wait a week for a pay envelope. That second I found a white card, hung in the window of a dairy lunch room. “Dishwasher Wanted,” it stated.

Without pausing to consider, I turned in sharply. The manager, to whom I was directed, curtly told me to go to the back door. I complied, standing in a greasy entryway back of the kitchen, where the continuous clatter of cheap cutlery and cheaper porcelain told me that the job I was seeking would be no sinecure.

“We got a washer about an hour ago,” said the manager abruptly, appearing in the doorway. “Sorry. If you'll leave your name we'll2”

I motioned in negation. Then pride was swept aside by a rush of hunger that was overmastering. “Haven't you got something for me to do whereby I can earn a meal?” I cried. “I'll wash floors or2”

“No, nothing. We don't employ tramps, anyway!” He turned his back.

I stood there fully five seconds, the hot blood rushing to my cheeks. I longed to walk up to him and knock him down, but a remnant of common sense restrained me. As I started to go out, however, a white-aproned figure sidled out furtively. I saw he was an oldish chap with washed-out blue eyes and scraggly mustache.

“Here!” he whispered, leaning out and extending a coin to me. “This ain't charity. I been hard up myself and just want to pass it along.” I saw the coin was a quarter. It was the first token of human feeling I had found in Chicago. if the manager had not called me a tramp I think I should have accepted the coin. It was a little too much for me to stomach, however. I thanked the cook, or whatever he was, and left without making any move toward his extended hand. Just at that moment, with utter irrelevance, I cursed the Germans roundly for letting themselves get licked so easily. Up in the clouds, with a Browning in front of me, they weren't used to despising me!

I crossed recklessly between the cars on Adams Street, scarcely caring to avoid accident. No one ran me down, though, and I found myself at the foot of the broad steps of the Federal Building. Repair work was going on in the entrance, and the usual crowd of street idlers had congregated. I gathered from snatches of conversation I overheard that some crank had thrown a bomb into the entrance a few weeks previously, ripping out part of the masonry and killing four or five people people. The sensation evidently was still fresh enough to attract loafers; as I took my place in the nondescript ranks I smiled bitterly at the irony of my being there beside tramps who at least had the excuse of not being familiar with every known variety of high-explosive bomb.

A firm hand closed on the biceps of my right arm. “I'd like a word with you!” said an even voice behind me.

I turned, my muscles contracting involuntarily, but the calm masterfulness of the blue eyes that met mine assured me I had no decent alternative. His face was lean, cut in bold lines of nose, jaw, and lips. No one could mistake that he meant business. As I studied the dynamic contour of his face I noted subconsciously a certain official tilt to his black felt and a tell-tale straightness in the manner he carried his shoulders.

“Pinched?” I queried caustically, stepping in the direction he indicated. It would not have mattered to me, for that, at least, would have assured me of board and lodging for a time, but I felt resentfully curious to know what new stigma could be fastened upon me.

“Not at all,” he answered abruptly. “Turn south here!”

He swung around the corner of Dearborn. For two blocks he said nothing more, and I obtained a good opportunity to look him over from head to foot. He seemed an inch or two taller than myself; I guessed him at slightly over six feet. His strides, even for a man of that height were enormous. After a second of watching the black trouser leg swinging methodically back and from his jersey jacket I understood; he was out of proportion in that his trunk was even shorter than mine, while his legs were at least six inches long: He carried himself with pride and decision, though; no one could think of poking fun at him.

He led me through the doorway of the Great Northern Hotel, across the lobby, and down the steps to the grill. Selecting a table in a corner far from the small coterie of late diners, he ordered, without consulting my preferences, soup, filet mignon, French-fried potatoes, combination salad, coffee, pie à la mode—I swallowed hard to keep from showing too avid interest. “Two orders of each,” he concluded curtly, “as quickly as possible. And now,” he went on, extending a hammered copper cigarette case across the table, “I must tell you first of all that I have a definite reason for inviting you here to-night. This is business, not charity.”

It was the second time in an hour that I had been assured that proffered assistance was not alms, but this time I believed. The imperative directness of the stranger was hard to associate with indiscriminate action of any kind. “So I guessed,” I answered dryly “else I shouldn't be sitting here.”

He nodded. “The dinner's an investment. I think it will bear good dividends, but that is beside the question now. I don't waste many words. and you don't look talkative. I'll come right down to cases before the waitress returns. How highly do you value your life?” A steely flash hardened the blue eyes.

I grinned. The outrageous question coming straight from the shoulder, pleased me immensely. It sounded like the talk I had been accustomed to hearing. “The price was never lower,” I answered. “State your proposition!”

He regarded me an instant shrewdly. “What are you, a draft dodger?” he asked.

In spite of myself a quick flush mounted to my cheeks. Half rising I unbuttoned my coat, turning outward the lapel to show the war cross I wore.

“Your pardon!” he said quickly, placing a hand on my shoulder and forcing me down into the seat again. “Wounded, eh?”

“Yes, but that's not why I'm here,” I retorted. “Now, see here! My name is Selwyn Trask. Why I have been walking the streets or why I'm here to-night is strictly my own business. What is yours?”

“A fair question, but I can't answer it as fully as I'd like,” he returned, leaning forward. “When I saw you out there by the post office, crossing the street without looking at the cars that almost hit you, I was nearly certain that you were the man I wanted. Now I am sure of it. I want a desperate man, but a man who knows how to be a gentleman, who can conduct himself with ease and surety in a company of gentlemen.”

I said nothing, for I flattered myself that even my unwarranted disgrace had not deprived me of address and personality, even though it had made my real name undesirable.

While the waitress set down the soup and toast crisps I saw my host eying me silently. The sight of something real to eat was too much for my sharpened appetite to stand, however. With a bow to him I ladled out a generous portion for each of us and started. I felt his eyes upon me, calculating, appraising; but his affair, whatever it might be, was of less interest to me just then than the viands.

“I am looking for a man possessing youth, good appearance, the ability to use money lavishly without seeming to notice expense, and yet who is sufficiently at odds with fortune to risk his life willingly for a commensurate reward. So far you seem to fill the bill.” My host spoke in a low tone, but with unmistakable seriousness.

“My experience ought to fit me for the place,” I answered dryly, “provided recommendations are not necessary.”

“They mean nothing to me,” he retorted. “No one can place a man with me unless my estimate of him is a sufficient recommendation.”

“You are in the habit of hiring men from the streets?”

“Yes, when I come across the man I want. I don't mind telling you that I have had a man watching the idlers near the post office ever since the War Exposition and the chill drove them out of Grant Park.”

“I am flattered,” I observed, grinning.

“Not at all,” he cut in abruptly. “Have you ever gambled?”

“Surely. House, , poker, faro, craps and other dice games, and, of course, the usual thing in an occasional tip on the ponies.” I could tell him this with a clear conscience.

“How much is the most you ever have lost in one evening?”

I considered. “A trifle over a thousand, one night at poker at the Knick2” I bit my tongue. “At a place in New York,” I finshed hastily.

“Good!” he exclaimed, without seeming to notice my slip. With the air of one having made a decision he addressed himself to the meal, and though my curiosity was just becoming aroused, I could get him to talk no more about the matter until dessert and coffee had been placed before us. Then, after sampling the pie and sipping the coffee, he held out the copper cigarette case again.

“I want you,” he began, striking a match, “provided you are willing to take the place.”

“Why, you haven't told me yet what the job is!” I protested, looking at him in amazement.

“No, and I shan't tell you just yet, either.”

“Well”—I looked him squarely in the eyes—“I have good reason to know that there are enough crooked affairs being conducted in this country to-day so that I cannot think of taking a place without some description of it being given.”

“I shall want you to take a suite of rooms at the Black Friar Hotel,” he said evenly. “There you will install yourself as a gentleman of some wealth. For perhaps a week or ten days I shall ask nothing of you except that you enjoy yourself thoroughly, and that you purchase a wardrobe commensurate with your new position. All your bills will be taken care of. Your valet will be furnished. In the drawer of your desk you will find a check book with a large enough sum entered to your name so that you will have no difficulty in keeping up your end no matter where you may go.”

“Yes, that will be splendid,” I retorted: “but what is the risk you spoke of? Where does my part of it come in?”

My host shook his head slowly. “That I cannot explain in full,” he answered. “Probably your part never will become wholly clear to you—unless disaster comes. I can just assure you of this: No matter what you are asked to do you may be certain that all is in a worthy cause.”

“Oh, certainly!” I laughed mirthlessly visions of blackmail schemes, bribery, confidence games, and other crimes coming to mind. “Just tell me what that worthy cause is, will you? I object to being a blind tool.”

“What you ask is impossible,” he answered quietly. “I can and will give you one pledge that probably will convince you, however. No one connected with my organization is working for dishonest gain. As time goes on you doubtless will fathom the greater part of our object. If at any time you are requested to do any work that seems unjustifiable or wrong, ask for me. I doubtless will be able explain to your satisfaction. If at the time I cannot, then, under oath of secrecy, you will be allowed to withdraw. Of course, after you have been with us a short time you will understand just how unprofitable it would be for you to betray us.”

I colored, unpleasant pictures conjured up by his last words. “I do not wish to join any enterprise that I ever may consider it my duty to betray!” I said shortly, thinking this would end the matter.

“You won't!” he promised coolly, tamping out his cigarette. “Now for terms. What salary a month do you want, exclusive of expenses?”

I had to smile, for though it galled me to take orders from a man I do not respect, there was something in the hawklike face and cold blue eyes of my host that made his assumption of authority natural and even compelling. “A thousand,” I answered, without the slightest idea whether the work I was accepting would occupy a week's time or the rest of my natural life.

“Fair enough!” He rose with decision. “Stay here,” he commanded, “and I'll send for Mitsui. He will be your valet.”

II—The Stranger in the Room

CHAPTER II.

THE STRANGER IN THE ROOM.

WHEN a plane is dropping from the clouds in a tail spin, the aviator has a hard job of waiting. If he works his controls before the rudder comes up from vertical he merely accentuates the spin and lessens his own chances. He must sit still, ready for instant action, but guided by developments.

After enfilading a Walvet scout once at a height of four thousand feet my Nieuport had slipped into one of these deadly spirals. I knew what to do but knew also that unless circumstance favored me I might hit the ground before I could flatten out. I just waited, my muscles all tightening under my skin, while the machine gunner behind me yelled frantic directions through the speaking tube. At two thousand feet the chance came. The heavy nose, aided by a gust of wind, tossed the tail up, halting the spin for the fraction of a second. One pull on the ailerons and hydroplanes and we were safe.

Sitting alone at table there at the Great Northern I experienced the same sensation I had felt when I knew we were in the tail spin. I was committed, but to what I had no idea. One notion struck me forcibly. My host had been in dead earnest; no matter what other wrong impressions his appearance might convey he was used to wasting neither time nor words. The risk he promised me would arrive in due time. Of that I was certain. Merely resting my chance for life upon my own skill had no terrors for me, if that were to be the issue. What I feared most was that in some way dishonor might be connected with the project, and I had been fed up on even the thought of that. Besides, I knew that I had been watched constantly. When I had come in from New York a detective had occupied the berth opposite mine. When I went back to the observation car he had decided upon a smoke at the same time. When I dropped the name of Tarrant I flattered myself that I did a good job of it, for I saw him no more.

“Mr. Trask! Mr. Selwyn Trask!” A boy in uniform passed near my table, and I beckoned to him. “Your car is waiting, sir,” said the page, “at the south entrance.”

I thanked him, and made my way up the single flight and out onto Jackson Boulevard. A single large limousine was at the curb, and in spite of the fact that I was prepared for any development, the big car gave me a thrill to my finger tips. There was no hocus-pocus about it, at any rate. I love fine machinery.

The interior of the car was unlighted, but as the door stood open, I stepped in. The reflection of the boulevard lights and the dimmed lamps of the motors showed me a great bulk of a man, huddled on one of the extension seats, facing backward. His greatcoat collar was turned up, and I could not make out his face, but I saw that he had to hunch forward a trifle to allow for the sloping roof of the car.

“Mr. Mitsui?” I asked doubtfully. I had expected a slim, lithe Jap.

“Ye-ah! Right in, sir!” The voice was deep from his chest, and there was nothing about it that should have inspired mirth, but I grinned in spite of all. Something in the drawling inflection, that rose slightly with each word, suggested anything but the Orient. I flung myself on the deep upholstery of the back seat and tried to make out the features veiled under the brim of his derby while we turned and glided away to our destination. Though in this I was unsuccessful, I did manage to make out that my new valet's size was not magnified by the coat. His eyes evidently detected a shiver I tried to repress, for one huge arm reached to the seat beside me, and came back with a fur robe. Without asking leave, he threw this about my shoulders and snapped the hook down over my ankles. In the course of this operation I had obtained a good chance to study his hands. Each was as broad and as capable as an entrenching tool, and the knuckles projected in homely fashion among knotted veins and tendons. The fingers, however, were of extraordinary length, and, although large, seemed both capable and graceful in a fashion. His wrists, covered with black hair on the backs, seemed slim in proportion to the bulging forearm and biceps behind. I resolved mentally that if I ever had to cross Mitsui I would try not to let those hands get hold of me.

As we came to a stop he pressed something forward into my hand. “The room key, sir,” he rumbled. “The registering is done. If you will please to go up2”

“Sure. When will I see you?”

“In ten minutes, Mr. Trask.” He remained seated, and as I stepped under the canvas canopy I saw the limousine drive away with the huge figure still huddled forward on the extension seat. I thought to myself that Mitsui was going to make an odd valet, but I rather liked the situation. I felt instinctively that he knew his business and mine also, and that I could depend on him as far as I was willing to go with him. I look for more action from men who say little.

At my floor I left the elevator and followed the door numbers around the corridor. At the figure which corresponded to the set on the keyplate, I entered. From the illumination of the corridor I managed to locate a set of buttons and snapped on all the lights.

The room was long but scarcely of three paces width; I saw that it extended to the front of the building and served as a waiting room and ante-chamber for visitors. A small desk and chair of mahogany and reed, and three chairs and a table in the window bay, all still covered by the linen dusters, completed the furnishings. On the left stood one central door, while at the right were two, spaced equidistantly from the center.

Tossing my hat in the tiny wall closet, I opened the door leading into the outside bedroom. I saw a pleasant chamber, perhaps twenty by twelve feet. It was situated at the southwest corner of the floor, so that three large windows opened to the south and two to the west. An extra-size double bed of mahogany, fitted with a canopy of flowered silk, stood in an alcove. A chaise longue was drawn up invitingly near the three south windows, and rockers and two straight chairs, all of comfortable lines, were placed sedately about with the prim arrangement that bespoke the ideas of a chambermaid rather than those of an occupant. A chiffonier, a writing desk, and a floor lamp completed the array.

A door in the south wall led into the bathroom, and from this another opened into the valet's bathroom. This in turn adjoined his bedroom, which was much the same as the first, except that it possessed only two windows instead of five, and the bed was less ornate. A steamer trunk and a large suit case standing in the clothes press showed that Mitsui had taken possession.

A faint odor of cigarette smoke hung in the air. I walked over to throw up the window, for though I smoke myself there is little I detest more than stale tobacco in a bedchamber. As I did so I stopped short. The curtain was sucked outward by the draft, but this was not what attracted my attention. A wisp of smoke, still clinging to its ephemeral form, passed out into the night! I watched it, fascinated. I knew that even in the deadest atmosphere cigarette smoke dissipates in a few minutes. Some one had been in this room when I entered the suite! It could not have been Mitsui, for I had seen him drive away, and neither my erstwhile host nor he had mentioned any other companion.

Guardedly I made my way to the door, examining the clothes press and the space beneath the bed. One thing was certain—the room was empty now. I retraced my steps, glancing into each nook and corner of my own chamber, but without success. There was no smoke in my room, anyway. The interloper evidently had not bothered with it.

That second I noted a faint curl of smoke from the floor near the desk. A cigarette stub, flattened by a heavy heel, still glowed faintly where a fraction of the spark had escaped extinction. I stooped and picked it up. The cork tip was broken and the label smirched, but I recognized, with a start, the same monogram that had decorated my dinner fags! This meant probably that the intruder was in some way connected with my host. Doubtless he had a perfect right to visit my apartment. Nevertheless, I crossed the hall and pressed my ear to the panel of the living-room door. A faint rustling as of paper being folded sounded from within.

Reason told me I had no need of stealth, but a natural instinct of caution bade me open the door without noise. Gripping knob tightly I turned it. Then, a millimeter at a time, I increased the aperture until I could obtain a fair view of the interior. The shades were drawn making the single electric bulb which glowed through frosted glass on the wall nearest me, a dim but sufficient illumination. Faced away from me at the opposite end of the room stood a man, fumbling with packs of papers. His face was bent down, but I could distinguish his fingers as they quietly slipped rubber hands to one side and shuffled through the documents.

With something of a thrill I noted that a heavy automatic lay on the table beside him. This token did not strike me favorably at all. If he had the right to look at those papers, why did he carry a gun? I resolved to find out, Already I felt a growing sense of responsibility for the interests of my employer.

Advancing on tiptoe across the bare stretch of floor, I reached the sound-snuffling thickness of rug it safety. Here I dropped on all fours, creeping round the center table. Once my quarry stopped as if to listen and my heart jumped, but, apparently reassured, he began again.

Now only eight feet intervened. No more cover offered; I had to cross the open floor behind him. With the greatest care I rose to my feet.

At that second one of my shoes squeaked audibly! The intruder whirled, reaching for his revolver. I was not quite ready, but I sprang, nevertheless. He warded me off with his left arm, and I just managed to retain my balance by seizing the edge of the table. When I turned he was covering me with the revolver.

“What can you wish here?” he inquired with the cool politeness I knew so well in certain French officers I had met in the service. His diction was perfect, however I scarcely could tabulate him as a foreigner.

“That's what I'm asking you!” I replied hotly. “These are my rooms. What are you doing here?”

“Ah! So?” His black brows lifted in surprise. “So you take this suite now, eh?”

“Yes,” I replied, angry for letting him get the upper hand. “Tell me what you want here! One cry for help will bring the hotel porters and the police,” I added significantly.

He smiled disdainfully. “Ah, that is what you call a 'bluff,' is it not? I know your business; it is not the kind which calls on the gendarmes—the police—for assistance.”

He glanced quickly to one side and started to back toward the door. In that instant I saw my opportunity. An apache in the Paris regiment had taught me a few tricks of savate, and one of them fitted this exigency remarkably well.

With a sudden well-timed kick I knocked the revolver from his hand, and then I closed with him. The attack was a complete surprise, for he doubtless had considered himself out of danger. As I hit him he slipped on the edge of the rug and I fell on top of him.