THE RED LEDGER. Frank L. Packard

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      Who was the Orchid?

      Stranway crunched the end of his cigarette abstractedly in the ash tray on the café table, as he stared through the window at the rather shabby street without. Who was she? Where was she? It was almost a month now since he had found her waiting for him in his car on the night when, with Steener as his accomplice, he had "robbed" Poindexter's safe, and during that time there had been no sign of her.

      Perhaps it was the very mystery surrounding her that intrigued and plagued him, and, if he were quite honest with himself, obliged him to admit that she was less and less out of his thoughts as the days went by. Who was she? Where was she? There had been a constant whirl of events, and many strange, and, on occasions, hazardous incidents which meanwhile had centred around that bizarre Red Room in 2½ Dominic Court, and he had seen "active service" almost a score of times—but never the Orchid. Why? He shook his head. Charlebois on that score was as uncommunicative as ever. All that he, Stranway, had to go on was the memory of the only two occasions on which he had seen her, and from his standpoint those meetings had not been at all satisfactory. Very far from it, indeed! He smiled suddenly—half grimly, half whimsically. His mind was fully made up that the same sort of thing would not happen again! The next time, no matter what the circumstances, he was going to know a lot more about a certain brown-eyed and tantalising young woman, who of late had been so woefully disturbing his peace of mind!

      Next time! When would that be? He had been expecting it, hoping for it every day since that last time—and it had never come.

      "Oh, damn it," murmured Stranway fervently to himself, "what's the use!"

      He lighted another cigarette, and, determined to divert his thoughts, tried to rivet his attention on the scene outside the window. Pushcarts lined the curb everywhere, some piled high with fruit, and some with vegetables, and some with fish, and some with merchandise too miscellaneous for inventory; and, while the hawkers screamed their wares and buyers haggled over their purchases, the scantily clad children, playing in the gutters, scrambled under the pushcarts for any pickings that might fall from the heaped-up treasures above. And always a motley crowd moved slowly on the sidewalk—composed for the most part of swarthy-faced men who wore ear-rings, and old women who wore dark shawls, and young women who went to the extreme in vivid colours that clashed violently. It was one of the "foreign sections" of the city. Usually he found it intensely interesting; there had been occasions even when he had sat for an hour at a stretch at this same table in Talimini's Café absorbed in exactly the same scene that was being enacted out there now. But to-night, somehow, it did not interest him at all.

      He turned a little irritably in his chair, and his eyes strayed around the interior of the café itself. Talimini's was Bohemian in the extreme. It was never sombre; and Talimini, who, according to his own story, had once been under-chef to the reigning house of Italy, substantiated his story to such a practical degree, at least, that the dinner he served was always rewarded with crowded tables.

      Just south of Washington Square, the café was not far from Dominic Court, and, once discovered by Stranway weeks ago, had since then become a favourite dining place of his. To-night was in no way different from any other night—but to-night, the gaiety and laughter, the chatter, often in strange tongues, that arose from the innumerable small tables around him, the really excellent violin that formed the backbone of the orchestra, and, indeed, the whole ensemble of the place with its air of vivacity and good-humour, which usually he very thoroughly enjoyed, now seemed only to bore and weary him.

      "What the devil is the matter with me?" he muttered savagely.

      He took out his watch—and, frowning suddenly in surprise, stared at it for an instant before returning it to his pocket. The time, after all, must have gone more quickly than he had imagined, for though he had entered the café well ahead of the hour appointed by Charlebois, it was now five minutes past that hour.

      It was rather strange! Charlebois was late. He had never known such a thing to happen before. The little old gentleman of Dominic Court was the soul of punctuality—prided himself upon it, indeed; and even drastically insisted upon it from others.

      Stranway lighted another cigarette, and his eyes fastened now on the street entrance across the intervening tables. He was quite sure Charlebois had not come in, for, though the café was already pretty well crowded, Charlebois knew that he, Stranway, always reserved the same table, or at least one of the group that was always served by the same waiter, and would have come directly to him. There could not be any mistake about the message—it was quite clear, quite plain. It had been telephoned from Dominic Court to an office downtown which he, Stranway, was to visit during the course of the afternoon, and on his arrival there the message had been transmitted to him. He repeated it mentally now: "Six-thirty at Talimini's—Charlebois will meet you there for dinner. Important." There could hardly have been any mistake about the hour!

      He kept his eyes steadily on the doorway now, but as the minutes passed and still Charlebois did not appear, Stranway found himself becoming more and more disquieted and uneasy. Ordinarily, the fact that a man was a few minutes late in keeping an appointment was a matter of no consequence whatever; it was trivial even, something to be passed off with a smiling excuse and apology—but not so in the case of Henri Raoul Charlebois. Charlebois was never late; and he, Stranway, in his two months of close intimacy with the little old gentleman of Dominic Court, was only too keenly alive to the fact that always and ever, lurking just around the corner, danger, sometimes subtle, sometimes clumsy, but always brutal, vicious and determined, stalked at Charlebois' heels, as those whose names were on the debit side of the Red Ledger struck back in an effort to free themselves from the net that was being drawn around them. He had good reason to be anxious. This was not like Charlebois at all. Something must have happened to the little old gentleman, for, otherwise, if Charlebois had been merely detained by some ordinary cause, he would almost certainly have sent a message to the café.

      Stranway glanced at his watch again. It was ten minutes past the hour now. What would he better do? He did not like the situation at all. Talimini's telephone was rather public, and if anything were wrong, and he himself were being watched, it would be—— Ah! Stranway relaxed in his chair with a smile of relief. There were a number of tables between himself and the door, and a group of people were now seating themselves around several of these, so that his view for the moment was somewhat obscured; but here, surely, was Charlebois at last—that little old gentleman who had just entered, and who was hidden now for an instant by the laughing crowd that seemed unable to decide among themselves who their individual table mates were to be, was Charlebois, wasn't it? And so, after all, his uneasiness had been groundless. Well, thank the Lord, it had! Charlebois, that strange, lovable, complex, yet intensely human character, had found a large place in his, Stranway's, heart, and the relationship between them had already become——

      With a warning cry that mingled despair and fury Stranway was on his feet—too late. Stilling the laughter, the talk, the boisterous gaiety of the place for a moment into shocked and terrified silence, save only for that one cry from Stranway, came the roar of a revolver shot, another and another, as a man at the table nearest the door fired three times in rapid succession at the little old gentleman—and then, leaping for the door, dashed through it to the street.

      Chairs and their occupants went down before Stranway's frantic rush. Without ceremony, heedless of everything, he forced his way between tables, between the groups seated in his path, ruthlessly brushing them aside. It had come at last—mocking with ghastly derision, as it were, the swift, amazing master-moves with which the little old gentleman of Dominic Court had hitherto fenced and turned aside and frustrated all previous attempts upon his life.

      The café was in a wild, panic-stricken furore now; men shouted, women screamed; waiters and those nearer the scene of the tragedy than Stranway packed forward ahead of him in a dense ring around the form on the floor. Passion, fury, grief stabbed at him, making of him temporarily a madman—and like a madman he fought his way through the jam.

      He burst through the circle, dropped on his knees beside the motionless, outstretched figure—and stared wildly into the white, upturned face. Relief, incredible, so overpowering as almost for the instant to leave him weak and