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Hidden Foes

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII. THE YELLOW COUPON.</h2></div> It was half past nine when Chick sauntered across Hamilton Square and sized up the buildings and grounds of the Osgood Hospital. He had learned from his chief the general lay of the land, so to speak, and continued around the extensive park and grounds, seeking the rear gate through which Mabel Smith, so called, had either entered or been carried into the place. He was not long in finding the gate, and he then discovered a gardener at work near by with a lawn mower. Entering with an air of cursory interest only, he approached him and inquired: “Is there any objection to my looking around a bit?” “No, sir, I reckon not,” said the laborer. “I’ll not disturb anything.” “Go ahead, sir. Go as far as you like.” Chick sauntered up the gravel walk, and presently discovered the iron seat on which the girl had been found. He walked over to it across the lawn and sat down, in seeming enjoyment of the shade tree overhanging it, but in reality to make a careful inspection of the surrounding ground. He could discover in the greensward at first only the marks left by the feet of the two policemen, whose heavy and lingering tread had obliterated any other imprints that might have been there when they arrived[60] upon the spot. As he was about to go, however, he caught sight of a small piece of a yellow card half hidden in the grass back of the seat. He leaned over and picked it up. It was part of a theater ticket, the coupon for a seat, and it was dated for the previous evening. “The Alhambra,” Chick read. “By Jove, that’s the theater from which the girl said she had come. She evidently did not lie from start to finish. H’m! This may help.” He had detected a faint aroma from the coupon, and he held it nearer to his nostrils. “Violet perfumery, but of an inferior quality,” he said to himself. “That indicates that she’s a girl of only moderate means, who cannot afford an expensive extract. She carried the ticket in a bag with her handkerchief, which was scented. This may start me on the right scent, too, and I’ll proceed to follow it up.” Placing the coupon in his notebook, he sauntered back across the lawn and passed out through the gate. He then saw that there was a narrow court beyond a row of dwellings on the opposite side of the street, which evidently was an outlet into the streets beyond. Crossing over, he walked in that direction, and as he was passing the third house from the court he saw a polished brass plate on the vestibule door: “Gordon Barclay. Artist.” Chick stopped short and gazed up at the door. “By Jove, this must be Don Barclay,” he muttered. “It’s not likely that there are two artists by that name. I’ve not seen him for years. I’ll take a chance that I’m right and will meet an old friend.” He mounted the steps and rang the bell. A butler[61] admitted him and vanished with his card on a silver tray. Presently, with hurried steps that evinced a very genuine eagerness, a well-built, handsome man in a velvet jacket rushed into the room, with eyes and cheeks aglow and his hands extended in cordial greeting. “Holy smoke, Chick Carter! The one and only Chick himself!” he shouted. “Gracious, but I’m glad to see you! How the dickens came you here? You’re not after me, are you?” Chick laughed, and returned the speaker’s cordial greeting. “No, indeed, Don, nothing like that,” he replied. “I’m in Madison on other business. I was passing this house only by chance, and I saw your door plate.” “Thank Heaven, you didn’t overlook it!” “And it occurred to me that we have not met for three years——” “Four, you rascal!” Barclay cut in boisterously. “It was on a boxing night at the Hudson Athletic Club. I remember it perfectly.” “That’s right, Don.” “Sure, Chick, it’s right. By Jove, you’re a sight for sore eyes! Come to the dining room and we’ll fire a ball. Then I’ll take you up to my studio and show you where I’m winning fame and fortune by slinging paint. That’s on the top floor. We’ll have a smoke and a good old-fashioned chat. By gracious, I’m glad to see you!” There was no doubting it. It stuck out all over the genial, vivacious artist, and for nearly an hour Chick complied with his wishes and responded to his running fire of questions. Then, during a lull in their[62] conversation, he turned it upon the matter more seriously engaging him. “Now, Don, a word about my mission in Madison,” said he, dropping the end of his cigar on a tray. “I know you may be trusted to say nothing about it.” “Not a word, Chick,” Barclay assured him. “Come on with it.” “You read the newspapers, I suppose.” “Only the headlines,” laughed the artist. “The details give me a confounded headache.” “You may not know about it, then,” said Chick. “I’m here to help clear up quite a sensational mystery in this immediate locality.” “Thunder! You don’t say so. Why, I thought the old fogies who dwell in this locality were too slow and sedate to get into anything more sensational than the death column.” “I will confide the case to you.” He did so briefly, merely stating the main features of the previous night, and a look of mingled surprise and amusement then appeared in the artist’s eyes. “Well, by gracious, that’s jolly funny!” he declared, drawing up in his chair. “Funny! What do you mean?” Chick inquired. “Why, it’s like this,” Barclay proceeded to explain. “I use this top floor for my studio, where I get the best light. I was at work here quite late last night. It must have been nearly midnight. Here, come this way. Come to the window.” Chick arose and accompanied him to a broad window overlooking most of the square, including the hospital building and grounds. Only a small part[63] of the grounds was hidden from view by the building itself. “Last night, just after I finished my work, I looked out here for a breath of fresh air,” Barclay resumed. “It was quite dark down below, but I caught sight of a motor cab, one of the noiseless type that is run by electricity, for it moved without a sound. I followed it with my eyes, having nothing better to do, and I saw it stop at a gate leading into the hospital grounds.” “That rear gate beyond the west wing?” “Yes, the same.” Barclay turned and nodded. “Do you suppose it figured in the case you mentioned?” “I would not be surprised,” Chick said a bit grimly. “Continue. What more did you see?” “Nothing very definite,” Barclay said. “I was not watching the cab suspiciously or with a very lively interest, though it struck me as being rather singular that it stopped at that gate, instead of in front of the hospital, or at a house on this side of the street, if the occupants were going there.” “Did you see any one enter the cab or leave it?” “I did not. Notice that the trees obstruct the view somewhat, and the lamps are all on this side. I am sure, however, that no one crossed the street,” Barclay quickly added. “I would have seen him in that case. Obviously, therefore, if any one left the cab, he must have gone into the hospital grounds.” “That is what I suspect,” said Chick. “Which way did the cab go when departing?” “Straight on and around the square. I know it did not return for ten minutes at least, if at all, for I stood here smoking as long as that.” [64] “You saw no one, then, nor heard anything?” “No, neither.” “From which direction did the cab come?” “Through the court at the end of this block,” said Barclay, pointing. “It leads out into Belmont Street.” “You think it was an electric cab?” “I’m almost sure of that.” “How long did it remain at the gate?” “Not more than a couple of minutes,” said Barclay. “Do you really think it figures in your affair?” “As a matter of fact, Don, I think there is hardly any doubt of it,” Chick said seriously. “In a way, however, it serves only to increase the mystery.” “I don’t quite see your point.” “My point is this,” Chick explained. “Why did the person, or persons, responsible for this curious affair go to the trouble to bring the victim, if she was a victim, and place her on a seat in the hospital grounds? She could have been left in many places with much less danger of detection. In the court itself or a dark doorway. It surely is a singular mystery.” Barclay puckered his brows thoughtfully, but he could suggest no theory for the circumstances. Moreover, he could not give the detective any additional information. Declining an invitation to remain to dinner, Chick remained only to warn the artist to say nothing about the affair, and he then bade him farewell and departed. He did not retrace his steps. Instead, he sauntered through the court mentioned, which was only wide enough for a single vehicle, and he presently found himself in Belmont Street, a quiet residential[65] avenue, with a traffic-filled thoroughfare to be seen in the distance. “By Jove, it looks very much as if I am hitting the right trail,” Chick said to himself, now shaping a course toward the business section. “If the girl left the Alhambra when the show ended, it then must have been about eleven o’clock, and if she lost consciousness while walking homeward through Main Street, it’s a safe gamble that she did not go far in her abnormal condition. She may have been picked up by the cab, therefore, and brought this way and through the court just as Barclay was gazing from his window. It would have taken only a couple of minutes to place the girl on the seat and move on, as he stated, which would show plainly that one or more men had a hand in the job. But what was the object? That’s the question. By Jove, I’ll head for the Alhambra and see what I can learn.” He arrived at the moving-picture house ten minutes later. He found the manager, Mr. Hewitt, in the ticket office with one of his sellers. Addressing him through the lattice window, at the same time tendering the yellow coupon, he inquired: “Do you know, or have you any way of learning, who occupied this seat in your theater last evening?” Hewitt gazed at him a bit sharply through his glasses; then shook his head and tossed the coupon aside, saying indifferently: “I don’t think so.” “You don’t think so?” “That’s what I said.” “Are you the manager?” “Yes.” [66] Chick did not fancy being treated in that way. He pressed a little nearer to the window, and said, with sinister intonation: “You take a tip from me, Mr. Manager, and have another think. Make it a more serious one this time.” “What do you mean by that?” frowned Hewitt. “Just what I say,” Chick replied, turning the lap of his vest and displaying his detective’s badge. Hewitt started perceptibly, and flushed deeply. “Oh, that’s different; very different,” he said in tones of hasty apology. “I did not suppose it was a matter of any importance.” “I don’t waste my time or encroach upon that of others with unimportant matters,” Chick replied coldly. “Have a look at the coupon now, and give me the information I want, if possible. Can you tell who occupied the seat?” “Well, really, sir, I hardly think so,” Hewitt now said regretfully. “In a theater of this size——” “Stop a moment, sir,” interrupted his assistant, who was also inspecting the coupon. “This was torn from a ticket sold by telephone and held until called for. Here is a mark of my indelible pencil on the back of it.” “Do you write the patron’s name on the back of a ticket when it is to be held till called for?” asked Chick. “Yes, certainly. But only the tail of the last letter happened to fall on the coupon,” said the assistant. “It contains no part of the name. See for yourself.” “Very true,” Chick admitted. “But what has become of that part of the ticket taken at the door?” [67] “The stubs?” “If that’s what you call them. Have they been destroyed? No two coupons are torn off exactly alike. We might find the ticket that this coupon perfectly matches, as well as these pencil lines, that would give us the name of the purchaser.” “By Jove, sir, that’s as true as gospel!” Hewitt declared. “No, the stubs have not been destroyed. I threw them into my wastebasket last evening after making up the house. They still are there.” “Let’s have a look at them.” “Certainly, sir, and I’ll assist you,” Hewitt readily assented. “Open the door, Jim, for the gentleman to enter. Walk into my private office, Mr.——” “Chickering,” said Chick dryly. “We’ll very soon examine them, Mr. Chickering,” Hewitt added, pulling a wastebasket from under his desk. “Take a seat. We need to examine only the yellow stubs and those having a name on them, and that may be quickly done.” It was not in Chick’s nature to nurse resentment, and he now met the much more gracious manager halfway. Less than fifty of the stubs had been inspected and compared with the coupon when the desired one was found. There could be no mistaking it, and on the back of it was written the name: “Nellie Fielding.” Hewitt called in his assistant and questioned him, showing him the ticket. “That’s your writing, Jim,” said he. “Do you remember selling the woman the ticket, or——” “Remember—sure thing,” interrupted the other.[68] “She comes here every week. I know her well by sight and where she works.” “Very good,” said Chick, suppressing his elation. “Where is she employed?” “She’s a waitress in Boyden’s restaurant, in Middle Street. You’ll find her there at any hour of the day.” “Thank you,” Chick bowed, with a glance from one to the other. “I’m obliged to both of you.” He lingered only to warn them not to communicate with the girl; then he shook hands with both and hurried from the theater. “Now, by Jove, there’ll be something doing,” he said to himself, much as if he had thus far been idle. “I’ll mighty soon find out why the milk is in the coconut.” <hr class="chap" /> [69] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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