The Red Mouse: A Mystery Romance, Page 2

  II

  Cradlebaugh's,--Cradlebaugh's house of a thousand chances,--rearing itsfour stories of brown stone, spreading itself out liberally on the northside of one of the side streets which is fast being given over tofashionable clubs and restaurants, is a thoroughly up-to-dateestablishment. Here, the _jeunesse dore_ of the city are madewelcome--once the critical eye of the sentinel behind the triple steeldoors at the top of the brown stone steps has recognised in them theessential qualifications. In appointments, the house is luxurious andgorgeous, and is so closely shuttered that not a ray of light fromoutside is permitted to penetrate it: Cradlebaugh's day and night, nightand day, is lit within by the glow of artificial lights; the sunlighthas no chance in Cradlebaugh's. In addition to the main hall of play,there are accommodations for parties wishing to indulge in quiet gamesamong themselves. Meals are served at all hours,--supper being thespecialty of the house,--and notwithstanding that no charge whatever ismade for them, the cuisine and service are beyond reproach. It can trulybe said of Cradlebaugh's, that it has all the cheerfulness of thehearth, the quiet of the sanctuary, mingled with the glare ofirresistible recklessness.

  It was to this establishment, then, that Challoner directed a cabby totake him after hours of unsuccessful attempts to borrow money from hisfriends--unsuccessful, because they had come to know hisirresponsibility, and to realise that his obligations were not theobligations of his wife. The consequence was that man after man inventedan excuse or refused him emphatically. And finally, in desperation, hehad offered to sell the Mastodon. But the dealers knew who owned thecar--one of the handsomest cars in town--and on Challoner disgustedlyordering his chauffeur home, a dealer more daring than the others hadsaid to him with aggressive familiarity:--

  "Get your wife's bill of sale, Challoner we'll buy it then, all right."

  A spark of anger immediately lit up Challoner's eyes, resentment wasdeep down in his inmost soul; but his brain had been absinthiated fordays, his sensibilities blunted, and indignities fell from him like theproverbial water from a duck's back. Nor was it solely with hismentalities that the dissipations of the last five years had playedhavoc: his face, his body, were unnaturally thin, and his glance hadbecome fixed and strained. Nevertheless, over-indulgence had notgrossened him, he was still good-looking, and there was an air about himthat few men had. In all his recklessness, whenever he wanted money hehad not forgotten that fact. It had always counted with Miriam--untilnow. It counted still with Miss Letty Love of the Frivolity!

  There had been moments, it is true, when rushing madly about town forfunds, that he had felt it would surely have been better for him if hehad never gone to Cradlebaugh's; but then like a flash would come thethought that if he had not gone to Cradlebaugh's he would never haveknown Letty Love! And by no means had he arrived at the state where hecould have wished that ...

  With the thought of Letty Love there came another indissolubly connectedwith it: Was Colonel Hargraves slowly undermining, ousting him out ofher affections? Not without reason he argued that Colonel Hargraves hadplenty of money, and the man with money was going to win out in thegraces of the Frivolity actress! Challoner could see it, could feel it,and now in this crisis he could not raise a paltry thousand or two ...

  Suddenly a voice from overhead broke in upon his thoughts with:--

  "Front entrance, sir?"

  Challoner started. The query was pertinent, frequently important,sometimes vital. But in all the times that Challoner had driven toCradlebaugh's, never until now had this question been put to him. Theentrance on the street above, he was quite well aware, was for thosewhose livelihood supplied sufficient reason for preferring the moresecret way, while the man-about-town,--such as he flattered himself thathe still was,--the credential-bearing stranger, even those whosereputation might suffer, found that the arrangement of the main entrancefurnished them with ample protection. Nevertheless, far from feazinghim, Challoner felt that in some subtle way the question fitted in withhis scheme of things. For a shadowy purpose was slowly forming in hismind--a purpose that required thought. His answer was of paramountimportance, he must make no mistake ...

  "The rear--no," he quickly corrected, "the front entrance."

  Before the main street door the driver pulled up his horse, andChalloner hurriedly walked--as one whose nose was straight and whofollowed his nose--into the whited sepulchre called Cradlebaugh's.

  No one greeted Challoner as he passed into the main hall: it happenedthere was no one present at the table that he knew. In the old days ithad been the custom of Cradlebaugh, the human spider, frankly to exhibithimself in the middle of his net, his grim smile and dry hand extendedto each guest who came or went. But of late years--since he had shuffledoff this mortal coil--there had been no one to make these obsequiousgreetings; for, though Cradlebaugh's still was Cradlebaugh's, itsownership remained a mystery. And whether it was a syndicate, anassociation, a reincarnated spirit, or a man, no one could tell. Of onething, however, its patrons were certain: there was but oneCradlebaugh's!

  For fully half an hour Challoner stood at the buffet, every now and thenunsteadily tilting the decanter. And while this course of refreshmentmay have dulled his wits, it certainly strengthened his courage, forpresently he said to himself:--

  "I'll try him, yes, why not?"

  And a moment later, still optimistic, he called a servant and asked:--

  "Where is Pemmican?"

  "Faro, sir."

  Challoner ascended swiftly to the second floor, and paused at one roomwhose door was open.

  "How long?" he inquired, thrusting in his head, by way of greeting tothe group at the table.

  Four of the men there did not glance up from their cards; hollow-eyed,cigars between their teeth, they were alive only to the hundredth chancethat still eluded them. The fifth man, a railroad president, coatless,alone nodded to Challoner, and said sententiously:--

  "Forty hours--for me."

  Half way down the corridor Challoner met Pemmican, head card-dealer ofCradlebaugh's, a man with a pasty face, a low brow and shifty eyes--aman who knew his business. This Pemmican seemed the all-and-all ofCradlebaugh's, apparently general factotum; but though he simulated theappearance of an owner, in reality he was a servile servant stamped witha dread of the pseudo-Cradlebaugh, of the man higher up. Nevertheless,whoever controlled the destinies of this gambling-house had chosen himwisely.

  Challoner came at once to the point.

  "Pemmican, I want some money--about--" and broke off abruptly, for theother was eyeing him coldly.

  Instinctively Pemmican of the low brow knew that the game was up withChalloner; moreover, he saw that, although the man seemed sober, inreality he was very drunk. He walked away quickly, dismissing himwith:--

  "I'm sorry, sir, but it's against the rules. I can't----"

  "What rot!" interrupted Challoner.

  But by this time Pemmican had reached the end of the hall, leaving theother to gather what he could of his mumbled excuses.

  In anything but an amiable mood, Challoner resumed his position at thebuffet. Suddenly he was conscious of a light touch on the arm. Turningslowly, he found himself face to face again with Pemmican.

  "Why don't you try Colonel Hargraves?" whispered the latter.

  "What?" came from the clogged brain of Challoner.

  "Try Hargraves," the other went on. "He's been down to Gravesend for twodays; and he's back...."

  Pemmican's meaning was lost on Challoner, for he merely exclaimed:--

  "Well?"

  Before answering, Pemmican of the low brow shrugged his shoulders andspread out his palms, then he said pointedly:--

  "Only that he pulled out ten thousand on Flora McQueen--that's all!"

  "What?" Challoner began to understand.

  Pemmican nodded.

  "Sure thing--ten thousand dollars!"

  Slowly and deliberately Challoner refilled his glass to the brim. For amoment there was silence, then Pemmican repeated tantalisingly:--

/>   "Ten thousand dollars--not a cent less!"

  Challoner thought for a moment.

  "How did you come out?" he asked, much to the other's surprise.

  Pemmican shook his head.

  "I lost a cool thousand because I did not back the mare. I played onTigerskin. I've got to get that thousand back, somehow."

  Challoner emptied his glass.

  "Was Colonel Hargraves down there alone?" His voice was thick, hoarse.

  "Where?" returned Pemmican, as if he had misunderstood.

  "At Gravesend?"

  Pemmican looked long and quizzically into Challoner's eyes.

  "He was ... not," was his simple but significant answer, and moved away.

  But Challoner followed him up, and seizing his arm, said somewhatgruffly:--

  "Look here, Pemmican, if Hargraves comes in--I want to see him--tell himto wait for me."

  For the first time Pemmican's eyes lost their curious tiredness, anenigmatical smile played about the corners of his mouth.

  "Yes," he said simply, and nodding, went his way.

  Left alone, Challoner found himself a prey to all the black fiends ofrage, jealousy and desire for revenge. For a time everything was blottedout from his vision except the face of Letty Love and the face ofColonel Hargraves. "This small world," he muttered to himself, "is muchtoo small for me and Colonel Hargraves!" With that there loomed up outof the mists of his mind the brilliantly lighted and ornate entrance ofa certain apartment-house a short distance away; and a few minuteslater, obedient to his subconscious will, his feet carried him down thestairs to a door evidently leading to the outside. A few words ofexplanation from Challoner to the man on duty there were necessarybefore he would proceed to undo the complicated system of bolts; andthen he passed out and was under the starry skies. Challoner was not thefirst man of social prominence in the community that could directlytrace the beginning of his life as an outcast to passing through thatdoor!