Three men sat in the Cosmic Club discussing the question: "What'sthe matter with Jones?" Waldemar, the oldest of the conferees, wasthe owner, and at times the operator, of an important and decentnewspaper. His heavy face wore the expression of good-humoredpower, characteristic of the experienced and successful journalist.Beside him sat Robert Bertram, the club idler, slender and languidlyelegant. The third member of the conference was Jones himself.
Average Jones had come by his nickname inevitably. His parents hadforedoomed him to it when they furnished him with the initials A. V.R. E. as preface to his birthright of J for Jones. His characterapparently justified the chance concomitance. He was, so to speak,a composite photograph of any thousand well-conditioned,clean-living Americans between the ages of twenty-five and thirty.Happily, his otherwise commonplace face was relieved by the oneunfailing characteristic of composite photographs, large, deep-setand thoughtful eyes. Otherwise he would have passed in any crowd,and nobody would have noticed him pass. Now, at twenty-seven, helooked back over the five years since his graduation from collegeand wondered what he had done with them; and at the four previousyears of undergraduate life and wondered how he had done so wellwith those and why he had not in some manner justified the partingwords of his favorite professor.
"You have one rare faculty, Jones. You can, when you choose,sharpen the pencil of your mind to a very fine point. Specialize,my boy, specialize."
If the recipient of this admonition had specialized in anything, itwas in life. Having twenty-five thousand a year of his own he mighthave continued in that path indefinitely, but for two influences.One was an irruptive craving within him to take some part in thedynamic activities of the surrounding world. The other was the"freak" will of his late and little-lamented uncle, from whom he hadhis present income, and his future expectations of some tenmillions. Adrian Van Reypen Egerton had, as Waldemar once put it,"--one into the mayor's chair with a good name and come out with ablock of ice stock." In a will whose cynical humor was the topic ofits day, Mr. Egerton jeered posthumously at the public which he haddespoiled, and promised restitution, of a sort, through his heir.
"Therefore," he had written, "I give and bequeath to the said AdrianVan Reypen Egerton Jones, the residue of my property, the principalto be taken over by him at such time as he shall have completed fiveyears of continuous residence in New York City. After such time thevirus of the metropolis will have worked through his entire being.He will squander his unearned and undeserved fortune, thuscompleting the vicious circle, and returning the millions acquiredby my political activities, in a poisoned shower upon the city, forwhich, having bossed, bullied and looted it, I feel no sentimentother than contempt."
"And now," remarked Waldemar in his heavy, rumbling voice, "youaspire to disappoint that good old man."
"It's only human nature, you know," said Average Jones. "When a manputs a ten-million-dollar curse on you and suggests that you haven'tthe backbone of a shrimp, you--you--"
"--naturally yearn to prove him a liar," supplied Bertram.
"Exactly. Anyway, I've no taste for dissipation, either moral orfinancial. I want action; something to do. I'm bored in thisinfernal city."
"The wail of the unslaked romanticist," commented Bertram.
"Romanticist nothing!" protested the other. "My ambitions arepractical enough if I could only get 'em stirred up."
"Exactly. Boredom is simply romanticism with a morning-afterthirst. You're panting for romance, for something bizarre. Egyptand St. Petersburg and Buenos Ayres and Samoa have all becomecommonplace to you. You've overdone them. That's why you're backhere in New York waiting with stretched nerves for the Adventure ofLife to cat-creep up from behind and toss the lariat of rainbowdreams over your shoulders."
Waldemar laughed. "Not a bad diagnosis. Why don't you take up ahobby, Mr. Jones?"
"What kind of a hobby?"
"Any kind. The club is full of hobby-riders. Of all people that Iknow, they have the keenest appetite for life. Look at oldDenechaud; he was a misanthrope until he took to gathering scarabs.Fenton, over there, has the finest collection of circus posters inthe world. Bellerding's house is a museum of obsolete musicalinstruments. De Gay collects venomous insects from all over theworld; no harmless ones need apply. Terriberry has a mania for oldrailroad tickets. Some are really very curious. I've often wishedI had the time to be a crank. It's a happy life."
"What line would you choose?" asked Bertram languidly.
"Nobody has gone in for queer advertisements yet, I believe,"replied the older man. "If one could take the time to follow themup---but it would mean all one's leisure."
"Would it be so demanding a career?" said Average Jones, smiling.
"Decidedly. I once knew a man who gave away twenty dollars daily onclues from the day's news. He wasn't bored for lack of occupation."
"But the ordinary run of advertising is nothing more than an effortto sell something by yelling in print," objected Average Jones.
"Is it? Well perhaps you don't look in the right place."
Waldemar reached for the morning's copy of the Universal and ran hiseye down the columns of "classified" matter. "Hark to this," hesaid, and read:
"Is there any work on God's green earth for a man who has just got to have it?"
"Or this:
"WANTED--A venerable looking man with white beard and medical degree. Good pay to right applicant."
"What's that?" asked Average Jones with awakened interest.
"Only a quack medical concern looking for a stall to impress theircome-ons," explained Waldemar.
Average Jones leaned over to scan the paper in his turn.
"Here's one," said he, and read:
WANTED--Performer on B-flat trombone. Can use at once. Apply with instrument, after 1 p. m. 300 East 100th Street.
"That seems ordinary enough," said Waldemar.
"What's it doing in a daily paper? There must be--er--technicalpublications--er--journals, you know, for this sort of demand."
"When Average's words come slow, you've got him interested,"commented Bertram. "Sure sign."
"Nevertheless, he's right," said Waldemar. "It is rathermisplaced."
"How is this for one that says what it means?" said Bertram.
WANTED--At once, a brass howitzer and a man who isn't afraid to handle it. Mrs. Anne Cullen, Pier 49 1/2 East River.
"The woman who is fighting the barge combine," explained Waldemar."Not so good as it looks. She's bluffing."
"Anyway, I'd like a shy at this business," declared Average Joneswith sudden conviction. "It looks to me like something to do."
"Make it a business, then," advised Waldemar. "If you care reallyto go in for it, my newspaper would be glad to pay for informationsuch as you might collect. We haven't time, for example, to tracedown fraudulent advertisers. If you could start an enterprise ofthat sort, you'd certainly find it amusing, and, at times, perhaps,even adventurous."
"I wouldn't know how to establish it," objected Average Jones.
The newspaper owner drew a rough diagram on a sheet of paper andfilled it in with writing, crossing out and revising liberally.Divided, upon his pattern, into lines, the final draft read:
HAVE YOU BEEN STUNG? Thousands have. Thousands will be. They're Laying for You. WHO? The Advertising Crooks. A. JONES Ad-Visor Can Protect You Against Them. Before Spending Your Money Call on Him. Advice on all Subjects Connected with Newspaper, Magazine or Display Advertising. Free Consultation to Persons Unable to Pay. Call or Write, Enclosing Postage. This Is On The Level.
"Ad-Visor! Do you expect me to blight my budding career by apoisonous pun like that?" demanded Average Jones with a wry face.
"It may be a poisonous pun, but it's an arresting catch-word," saidWaldemar, unmoved. "Single column, about fifty lines will do it innice, open style. Caps and lower case, and black-faced type for thename and title. Insert twice a week in every New York and Brooklynpaper."
"Isn't it--er--a little blatant?" suggested Bertram, with liftedeyebrows.
"Blatant?" repeated its inventor. "It's more than that. It'showlingly vulgar. It's a riot of glaring yellow. How else wouldyou expect to catch the public?"
"Suppose, then, I do burst into flame to this effect?" queried theprospective "Ad-Visor." "Et apres? as we proudly say after spendinga week in Paris."
"Apres? Oh, plenty of things. You hire an office, a clerk, twostenographers and a clipping export, and prepare to take care of thework that comes in. You'll be flooded," promised Waldemar.
"And between times I'm to go skipping about, chasing long whitewhiskers and brass howitzers and B-flat trombones, I suppose."
"Until you get your work systematized you'll have no time forskipping. Within six months, if you're not sandbagged or jailed onfake libel suits, you'll have a unique bibliography of swindles.Then I'll begin to come and buy your knowledge to keep my owncolumns clean."
The speaker looked up to meet the gaze of an iron-gray man with aharsh, sallow face.
"Excuse my interrupting," said the new-comer.
"Just one question, Waldemar. Who's going to be the nominee?"
"Linder."
"Linder? Surely not! Why, his name hasn't been heard."
"It will be."
"His Federal job?"
"He resigns in two weeks."
"His record will kill him."
"What record? You and I know he's a grafter. But can we proveanything? His clerk has always handled all the money."
"Wasn't there an old scandal--a woman case?"' asked the questionervaguely.
"That Washington man's wife? Too old. Linder would deny it flatly,and there would be no witnesses. The woman is dead--killed by hisbrutal treatment of her, they say. But the whole thing was hushedup at the time by Linder's pull, and when the husband threatened tokill him Linder quietly set a commissioner of insanity on the caseand had the man put away. He's never appeared since. No, thatwouldn't be politically effective."
The gray man nodded, and walked away, musing.
"Egbert, the traction boss," explained Waldemar. "We're generallyon opposite sides, but this time we're both against Linder. Egbertwants a cheaper man for mayor. I want a straighter one. And I couldget him this year if Linder wasn't so well fortified. However, toget back to our project, Mr. Jones--"
Get back to it they did with such absorption that when the groupbroke up, several hours later, Average Jones was committed, by planand rote, to the new and hopeful adventure of Life.
In the great human hunt which ever has been and ever shall be till"the last bird flies into the last light"--some call it business,some call it art, some call it love, and a very few know it for whatit is, the very mainspring of existence--the path of the pursuer andthe prey often run obscurely parallel. What time the HonorableWilliam Linder matured his designs on the mayoralty, Average Jonessat in a suite of offices in Astor Court, a location which Waldemarhad advised as being central, expensive, and inspirational ofconfidence, and considered, with a whirling brain, the minor woes ofhumanity. Other people's troubles had swarmed down upon him inanswer to his advertised offer of help, as sparrows flock toscattered bread crumbs. Mostly these were of the lesser order ofdifficulties; but for what he gave in advice and help the Ad-Visortook payment in experience and knowledge of human nature. Still itwas the hard, honest study, and the helpful toil which held him tohis task, rather than the romance and adventure which he had hopedfor and Waldemar had foretold--until, in a quiet, street inBrooklyn, of which he had never so much as heard, there befell thatwhich, first of many events, justified the prophetic Waldemar andgave Average Jones a part in the greater drama of the metropolis.The party of the second part was the Honorable William Linder.
Mr., Linder sat at five P. m., of an early summer day, behind lockand bolt. The third floor front room of his ornate mansion onBrooklyn's Park Slope was dedicated to peaceful thought. Sprawledin a huge and softly upholstered chair at the window, he took hisease in his house. The chair had been a recent gift from ananonymous admirer whose political necessities, the Honorable Mr.Linder idly surmised, had not yet driven him to reveal his identity.Its occupant stretched his shoeless feet, as was his custom, uponthe broad window-sill, flooded by the seasonable warmth of sunshine,the while he considered the ripening mayoralty situation. He foundit highly satisfactory. In the language of his inner man, it was acinch.
Below, in Kennard Street, a solitary musician plodded. Hispretzel-shaped brass rested against his shoulder. He appeared to bethe "scout" of one of those prevalent and melancholious Germanbands, which, under Brooklyn's easy ordinances, are privileged todraw echoes of the past writhing from their forgotten recesses. Theman looked slowly about him as if apprising potential returns. Hisgravid glance encountered the prominent feet in the third storywindow of the Linder mansion, and rested. He moved forward.Opposite the window he paused. He raised the mouthpiece to his lipsand embarked on a perilous sea of notes from which the tutored earmight have inferred that once popular ditty, Egypt.
Love of music was not one of the Honorable William Linder'sattributes. An irascible temper was. Of all instruments the B-flattrombone possesses the most nerve-jarring tone. The master of themansion leaped from his restful chair. Where his feet hadornamented the coping his face now appeared. Far out he leaned, androared at the musician below. The brass throat blared back at him,while the soloist, his eyes closed in the ecstasy of art, broughtthe "verse" part of his selection to an excruciating conclusion,half a tone below pitch. Before the chorus there was a brief pausefor effect. In this pause, from Mr. Linder's open face a voice felllike a falling star. Although it did not cry "Excelsior," itsoutput of vocables might have been mistaken, by a casual ear, forthat clarion call. What the Honorable Mr. Linder actually shoutedwas:
"Getthehelloutofhere!"
The performer upturned a mild and vacant face. "What you say?" heinquired in a softly Teutonic accent.
The Honorable William Linder made urgent gestures, like a brakeman.
"Go away! Move on!"
The musician smiled reassuringly.
"I got already paid for this," he explained.
Up went the brass to his lips again. The tonal stairway which leadsup to the chorus of Egypt rose in rasping wailfulness. Itculminated in an excessive, unendurable, brazen shriek--and theHonorable William Linder experienced upon the undefended rear of hisperson the most violent kick of a lifetime not always devoted to thearts of peace. It projected him clear of the window-sill. His lastsensible vision was the face of the musician, the mouth absurdlyhollow and pursed above the suddenly removed mouthpiece. Then anawning intercepted the politician's flight. He passed through this,penetrated a second and similar stretch of canvas shading the nextwindow below, and lay placid on his own front steps with three ribscaved in and a variegated fracture of the collar-bone. By the timethe descent was ended the German musician had tucked his brass underhis arm and was hurrying, in panic, down the street, his ears stillringing with the concussion which had blown the angry householderfrom his own front window. He was intercepted by a runningpoliceman.
"Where was the explosion?" demanded the officer.
"Explosion? I hear a noise in the larch house on the corner,"replied the musician dully.
The policeman grabbed his arm. "Come along back. You fer awitness! Come on; you an' yer horn."
"It iss not a horn," explained the German patiently, "'it iss aB-flat trombone."
Along with several million other readers, Average Jones followed theLinder "bomb outrage" through the scandalized head-lines of thelocal press. The perpetrator, declared the excited journals, hadbeen skilful. No clue was left. The explosion had taken care ofthat. The police (with the characteristic stupidity of a corps offormer truck-drivers and bartenders, decorated with brass buttonsand shields and without further qualification dubbed "detectives")vacillated from theory to theory. Their putty-and-pasteboardfantasies did not long survive the Honorable William Linder's returnto consciousness and coherence. An "inside job," they had said.The door was locked and bolted, Mr. Linder declared, and there wasno possible place for an intruder to conceal himself. Clock-work,then.
"How would any human being guess what time to set it for," demandedthe politician in disgust, "when I never know, myself, where I'mgoing to be at any given hour of any given day?"
"Then that Dutch horn-player threw the bomb," propounded the head ofthe "Detective Bureau" ponderously.
"Of course; tossed it right up, three stories, and kept playing hisinfernal trombone with the other hand all the time. You ought to becarrying a hod!"
Nevertheless, the police hung tenaciously to the theory that themusician was involved, chiefly because they had nothing else to hangto. The explosion had been very localized, the room not generallywrecked; but the chair which seemed to be the center of disturbance,and from which the Honorable William Linder had risen just in timeto save his life, was blown to pieces, and a portion of the floorbeneath it was much shattered. The force of the explosion had beenfrom above the floor downward; not up through the flooring. As tomurderously inclined foes, Mr. Linder disclaimed knowledge of any.The notion that the trombonist had given a signal he derided as an"Old Sleuth pipe-dream."
As time went on and "clues" came to nothing, the police had nogreater concern than quietly to forget, according to custom, aproblem beyond their limited powers. With the release of the Germanmusician, who was found to be simple-minded to the verge ofhalf-wittedness, public interest waned, and the case faded out ofcurrent print.
Average Jones, who was much occupied with a pair of blackmailersoperating through faked photographs, about that time, had almostforgotten the Linder case, when, one day, a month after theexplosion, Waldemar dropped in at the Astor Court offices. He founda changed Jones; much thinner and "finer" than when, eight weeksbefore, he had embarked on his new career, at the newspaper owner'sinstance. The young man's color was less pronounced, and his eyes,though alert and eager, showed rings under them.
"You have found the work interesting, I take it," remarked thevisitor.
"Ra--ather," drawled Average Jones appreciatively.
"That was a good initial effort, running down the opium pillmail-order enterprise."
"It was simple enough as soon as I saw the catchword in the 'Wanted'line."
"Anything is easy to a man who sees," returned the older mansententiously. "The open eye of the open mind--that has more to dowith real detective work than all the deduction and induction andanalysis ever devised."
"It is the detective part that interests me most in the game, but Ihaven't had much of it, yet. You haven't run across any promisingads lately, have you?"
Waldemar's wide, florid brow wrinkled.
"I haven't thought or dreamed of anything for a month but thisinfernal bomb explosion."
"Oh, the Linder case. You're personally interested?"
"Politically. It makes Linder's nomination certain. Persecution.Attempted assassination. He becomes a near-martyr. I'm almostready to believe that he planted a fake bomb himself."
"And fell out of a third-story window to carry out the idea? That'spushing realism rather far, isn't it?"
Waldemar laughed. "There's the weakness. Unless we suppose that heunder-reckoned the charge of explosive."
"They let the musician go, didn't they?"
"Yes. There was absolutely no proof against him, except that he wasin the street below. Besides, he seemed quite lacking mentally."
"Mightn't that have been a sham?"
"Alienists, of good standing examined him. They reported him just ashade better than half-witted. He was like a one-ideaed child, hiswhole being comprised in his ability, and ambition to play hisB-flat trombone."
"Well, if I needed an accomplice," said Average Jones thoughtfully,"I wouldn't want any better one than a half-witted man. Did he playwell?"
"Atrociously. And if you know what a soul-shattering blare exudesfrom a B-flat trombone--" Mr. Waldemar lifted expressive hands.
Within Average Jones' overstocked mind something stirred at therepetition of the words "B-flat trombone." Somewhere they hadattracted his notice in print; and somehow they were connected withWaldemar. Then from amidst the hundreds of advertisements withwhich, in the past weeks, he had crowded his brain, one stood outclear. It voiced the desire of an unknown gentleman on the nearborder of Harlem for the services of a performer upon thatsemi-exotic instrument. One among several, it had been cut from thecolumns of the Universal, on the evening which had launched him uponhis new enterprise. Average Jones made two steps to a bookcase,took down a huge scrap-book from an alphabetized row, and turned theleaves rapidly.
"Three Hundred East One Hundredth Street," said he, slamming thebook shut again. "Three Hundred East One Hundredth. You won'tmind, will you," he said to Waldemar, "if I leave youunceremoniously?"
"Recalled a forgotten engagement?" asked the other, rising.
"Yes. No. I mean I'm going to Harlem to hear some music.Thirty-fourth's the nearest station, isn't it? Thanks. So long."
Waldemar rubbed his head thoughtfully as the door slammed behind thespeeding Ad-Visor.
"Now, what kind of a tune is he on the track of, I wonder?" hemused. "I wish it hadn't struck him until I'd had time to go overthe Linder business with him."
But while Waldemar rubbed his head in cogitatation and the HonorableWilliam Linder, in his Brooklyn headquarters, breathed charily, outof respect to his creaking rib, Average Jones was following fatenorthward.
Three Hundred East One Hundredth Street is a house decrepit with adisease of the aged. Its windowed eyes are rheumy. It sagsbackward on gnarled joints. All its poor old bones creak when thewinds shake it. To Average Jones' inquiring gaze on this summer dayit opposed the secrecy of a senile indifference. He hesitated topull at its bell-knob, lest by that act he should exert a disruptiveforce which might bring all the frail structure rattling down inruin. When, at length, he forced himself to the summons, the merestghost of a tinkle complained petulantly from within against hisviolence.
An old lady came to the door. She was sleek and placid, round andcomfortable. She did not seem to belong in that house at all.Average Jones felt as if he had cracked open one of the grislylocust shells which cling lifelessly to tree trunks, and had foundwithin a plump and prosperous beetle.
"Was an advertisement for a trombone player inserted from thishouse, ma'am?" he inquired.
"Long ago," said she.
"Am I too late, then?"
"Much. It was answered nearly two months since. I have never,"said the old lady with conviction, "seen such a frazzled lot offolks as B-flat trombone players."
"The person who inserted the advertisement--?"
"Has left. A month since."
"Could you tell where he went?"
"Left no address."
"His name was Telford, wasn't it?" said Average Jones strategically.
"Might be," said the old lady, who had evidently formed no favorableimpression of her ex-lodger. "But he called himself Ransom."
"He had a furnished room?"
"The whole third floor, furnished."
"Is it let now?"
"Part of it. The rear."
"I'll take the front room."
"Without even looking at it?"
"Yes."
"You're a queer young man. As to price?"
"Whatever you choose."
"You're a very queer young man. Are you a B-flat trombone player?"
"I collect 'em," said Average Jones.
"References?" said the old lady abruptly and with suspicion.
"All varieties," replied her prospective lodger cheerfully. "I willbring 'em to-morrow with my grip."
For five successive evenings thereafter Average Jones sat in thesenile house, awaiting personal response to the followingadvertisement which he had inserted in the Universal:
WANTED--B-flat trombonist. Must have had experience as street player. Apply between 8 and 10 p. m. R--, 300 East 100th Street.
Between the ebb and flow of applicant musicians he read exhaustivelyupon the unallied subjects of trombones and high explosives, ortalked with his landlady, who proved to be a sociable person, notdisinclined to discuss the departed guest. "Ransom," his supplanterlearned, had come light and gone light. Two dress suit cases hadsufficed to bring in all his belongings. He went out but little,and then, she opined with a disgustful sniff, for purposes strictlyalcoholic. Parcels came for him occasionally. These were usuallylabeled "Glass. Handle with care." Oh! there was one other thing.A huge, easy arm-chair from Carruthers and Company, mighty luxuriousfor an eight-dollar lodger.
"Did he take that with him?" asked Average Jones.
"No. After he had been here a while he had a man come in and box itup. He must have sent it away, but I never saw it go."
"Was this before or after the trombone players came?"
"Long after. It was after he had picked out his man and had him uphere practicing."
"Did--er--you ever--er--see this musician?" drawled Average Jones inthe slow tones of his peculiar excitement.
"Bless you, yes! Talked with him."
"What was he like?"
"He was a stupid old German. I always thought he was a sort of anatural."
"Yes?" Average Jones peered out of the window. "Is this the man,coming up the street?"
"It surely is," said the old lady. "Now, Mister Jones, if hecommences his blaring and blatting and--',
"There'll be no more music, ma'am," promised the young man,laughing, as she went out to answer the door-bell.
The musician, ushered in, looked about him, an expression ofbewildered and childish surprise on his rabbit-like face.
"I am Schlichting," he murmured; "I come to play the B-flattrombone."
"Glad to see you, Mr. Schlichting," said Average Jones, leading theway up-stairs. "Sit down."
The visitor put his trombone down and shook his head withconviction.
"It iss the same room, yes," he observed. "But it iss not the samegent, no."
"You expected to find Mr. Ransom here?"
"I don't know Mr. Ransom. I know only to play the B-flat trombone."
"Mr. Ransom, the gentleman who employed you to play in the street inBrooklyn."
Mr. Schlichting made large and expansive gestures. "It iss apleasure to play for such a gent," he said warmly. "Two dollars aday."
"You have played often in Kennard Street?"
"I don't know Kennard Street. I know only to play the B-flattrombone."
"Kennard Street. In Brooklyn. Where the fat gentleman told you tostop, and fell out of the window."
A look of fear overspread the worn and innocent face.
"I don't go there no more. The po-lice, they take there."
"But you had gone there before?"
"Not to play; no."
"Not to play? Are you sure?"
The German considered painfully. "There vass no feet in thewindow," he explained, brightening.
Upon that surprising phrase Average Jones pondered. "You were notto play unless there were feet the window," he said at length. "Wasthat it?"
The musician assented.
"It does look like a signal to show that Linder was in," mused theinterrogator. "Do you know Linder?"
"I don't know nothing only to play the B-flat trombone," repeatedthe other patiently.
"Now, Schlichting," said Average Jones, "here is a dollar. Everyevening you must come here. Whether I am here or not, there willbe a dollar for you. Do you understand?"
By way of answer the German reached down and listed his instrumentto his lips.
"No, not that," forbade Average Jones. "Put it down."
"Not to play my B-flat trombone?" asked the other, innocently hurt."The other gent he make play here always."
"Did he?" drawled Average Jones. "And he--er--listened?"
"He listened from out there." The musician pointed to the otherroom.
"How long?"
"Different times," was the placid reply.
"But he was always in the other room."
"Always. And I play Egypt. Like this."
"No!" said Average Jones, as the other stretched out a hopeful hand.
"He liked it--Egypt," said the German wistfully. "He said: 'Bravo!Encore! Bis!' Sometimes nine, sometimes ten times over I play it,the chorus."
"And then he sent you home?"
"Then sometimes something goes 'sping-g-g-g-g!' like that in theback room. Then he comes out and I may go home."
"Um--m," muttered Average Jones discontentedly. "When did you beginto play in the street?"
"After a long time. He take me away to Brooklyn and tell me, 'Whenyou see the feet iss in the window you play hard!"'
There was a long pause. Then Average Jones asked casually:
"Did you ever notice a big easy chair here?"
"I do not notice nothing. I play my B-flat trombone."
And there his limitations were established. But the old lady hadsomething to add.
"It's all true that he said," she confirmed. "I could hear hisracket in the front room and Mr. Ransom working in the back andthen, after the old man was gone, Mr. Ransom sweeping up somethingby himself."
"Sweeping? What--er--was he--er--sweeping?"
"Glass, I think. The girl used to find little slivers of it firstin one part of the room, then in another. I raised the rent forthat and for the racket."
"The next thing," said Average Jones, "is to find out where that bigeasy chair went from here. Can you help me there?"
The old lady shook her head. "All I can do is to tell you thenear-by truck men."
Canvass of the local trucking industry brought to light the conveyorof that elegant article of furniture. It had gone, Average Joneslearned, not to the mansion of the Honorable William Linder, as hehad fondly hoped, but to an obscure address not far from the NavyYard in Brooklyn. To this address, having looked up and gathered inthe B-flat trombonist, Average Jones led the way. The pair lurkedin the neighborhood of the ramshackle house watching the entrance,until toward evening, as the door opened to let out a tremulouswreck of a man, palsied with debauch, Schlichting observed:
"That iss him. He hass been drinking again once."
Average Jones hurried the musician around the corner intoconcealment. "You have been here before to meet Mr. Ransom?"
"No."
"Where did he meet you to pay you your wages?"
"On some corner," said the other vaguely.
"Then he took you to the big house and left you there," urged Jones.
"No; he left me on the street corner. 'When the feet iss in thewindow,' he says, 'you play.'"
"It comes to this," drawled Average Jones intently, looking theemployee between his vacuous eyes. "Ransom shipped the chair toPlymouth Street and from there to Linder's house. He figured outthat Linder would put it in his study and do his sitting at thewindow in it. And you were to know when he was there by seeing hisfeet in the window, and give the signal when you saw him. It musthave been a signal to somebody pretty far off, or he wouldn't havechosen so loud an instrument as a B-flat trombone."
"I can play the B-flat trombone louder as any man in the business,"asserted Schlichting with proud conviction.
"But what gets me," pursued Average Jones, "is the purpose of thesignal. Whom was it for?"
"I don't know nothing," said the other complacently. "I only knowto play the B-flat trombone louder as any man in the world."
Average Jones paid him a lump sum, dismissed him and returned to theCosmic Club, there to ponder the problem. What next? To accuseRansom, the mysterious hirer of a B-flat trombone virtuosity,without sufficient proof upon which to base even a claim ofcross-examination, would be to block his own game then and there,for Ransom could, and very likely would, go away, leaving no trace.Who was Ransom, anyway? And what relation, if any, did he bear toLinder?
Absorbed in these considerations, be failed to notice that the clubwas filling up beyond its wont. A hand fell on his shoulder.
"Hello, Average. Haven't seen you at a Saturday special night sinceyou started your hobby."
It was Bertram. "What's on?" Average Jones asked him, shakinghands.
"Freak concert. Bellerding has trotted out part of his collectionof mediaeval musical instruments, and some professionals are goingto play them. Waldemar is at our table. Come and join us."
Conversation at the round-table was general and lively that evening,and not until the port came on--the prideful club port, served onlyon special occasions and in wonderful, delicate glasses--did AverageJones get an opportunity to speak to Waldemar aside.
"I've been looking into that Linder matter a little."
"Indeed. I've about given up hope."
"You spoke of an old scandal in Linder's career. What was thehusband's name?"
"Arbuthnot, I believe."
"Do you know what sort of looking man he was?"
"No. I could find out from Washington."
"What was his business?"
"Government employment, I think."
"In the--er--scientific line, perhaps?" drawled Jones.
"Why, yes, I believe it was."
"Um-m. Suppose, now, Linder should drop out of the combination.Who would be the most likely nominee?"
"Marsden--the man I've been grooming for the place. A first-class,honorable, fearless man."
"Well, it's only a chance; but if I can get one dark point clearedup--"
He paused as a curious, tingling note came from the platform wherethe musicians were tuning tip.
"One of Bellerding's sweet dulcets," observed Bertram.
The Performer nearest them was running a slow bass scale on a sortof two-stringed horse-fiddle of a strange shape. Average Jones'still untouched glass, almost full of the precious port, trembledand sang a little tentative response. Up-up-up mounted thethrilling notes, in crescendo force.
"What a racking sort of tone, for all its sweetness!" said AverageJones. His delicate and fragile port glass evidently shared theopinion, for, without further warning, it split and shivered.
"They used to show that experiment in the laboratory," said Bertram."You must have had just the accurate amount of liquid in the glass,Average. Move back, you lunatic, it's dripping all over you."
But Average Jones sat unheeding. The liquor dribbled down into hislap. He kept his fascinated gaze fixed on the shattered glass.Bertram dabbed him with a napkin.
"Tha--a--anks, Bertram," drawled the beneficiary of this attention."Doesn't matter. Excuse me. Good night."
Leaving his surprised companions, he took hat and cane and caught aThird Avenue car. By the time he had reached Brooklyn Bridge he hadhis campaign mapped out. It all depended upon the opening question.Average Jones decided to hit out and hit quick.
At the house near the Navy Yard he learned that his man was out.So he sat upon the front steps while one of the highest-priced winesin New York dried into his knees. Shortly before eleven a shufflingfigure paused at the steps, feeling for a key.
"Mr. Arbuthnot, otherwise Ransom?" said Average Jones blandly.
The man's chin jerked back. His jaw dropped.
"Would you like to hire another B-flat trombonist?" pursued theyoung man.
"Who are you?" gasped the other. "What do you want?"
"I want to know," drawled Average Jones, "how--er-you planted theglass bulb--er--the sulphuric acid bulb, you know--in the chair thatyou sent--er--to the Honorable William Linder, so that--er--itwouldn't be shattered by anything but the middle C note of a B-flattrombone?"
The man sat down weakly and bowed his face in his hands. Presentlyhe looked up.
"I don't care," he said. "Come inside."
At the end of an hour's talk Arbuthnot, alias Ransom, agreed toeverything that Average Jones proposed.
"Mind you," he said, "I don't promise I won't kill him later. Butmeantime it'll be some satisfaction to put him down and outpolitically. You can find me here any time you want me. You sayyou'll see Linder to-morrow?"
"To-morrow," said Average Jones. "'Look in the next day's papersfor the result."
Setting his telephone receiver down the Honorable William Linderlost himself in conjecture. He had just given an appointment to histried and true, but quite impersonal enemy, Mr. Horace Waldemar.
"What can Waldemar want of me?" ran his thoughts. "And who is thisfriend, Jones, that he's bringing? Jones? Jones! Jones?!" Hetried it in three different accents, without extracting anyparticular meaning therefrom. "Nothing much in the political game,"he decided.
It was with a mingling of gruffness and dignity that he greeted Mr.Waldemar an hour later. The introduction to Average Jones heacknowledged with a curt nod.
"Want a job for this young man, Waldemar?" he grunted.
"Not at present, thank you," returned the newspaper owner. "Mr.Jones has a few arguments to present to you."
"Arguments," repeated the Honorable William Lender contemptuously."What kind of arguments?"
"Political arguments. Mayoralty, to be specific. To be morespecific still, arguments showing why you should drop out of therace."
"A pin-feather reformer, eh?"
The politician turned to meet Average Jones' steady gaze and mildlyinquiring smile.
"Do you--er--know anything of submarine mines, Mr. Linder?" drawledthe visitor.
"Huh?" returned the Honorable William Linder, startled.
"Submarine mines," explained the other., "Mines in the sea, if youwish words of one syllable."
The lids of the Honorable Linder contracted.
"You're in the wrong joint," he said, "this ain't the NavalCollege."
"Thank you. A submarine mine is a very ingenious affair. I'verecently been reading somewhat extensively on the subject. The maincharge is some high explosive, usually of the dynamite type. Aboveit is a small jar of sulphuric acid. Teeth, working on levers,surround this jar. The levers project outside the mine. When aship strikes the mine, one or more of the levers are pressed in.The teeth crush the jar. The sulphuric acid drops upon the maincharge and explodes it. Do you follow me."
"I'll follow you as far as the front door," said the politicianbalefully. He rose.
"If the charge were in a chair, in the cushion of an easy chair,we'll say, on the third floor of a house in Brooklyn--"
The Honorable William Linder sat down again. He sat heavily.
"--the problem would be somewhat different. Of course, it would beeasy to arrange that the first person to sit down in the chairwould, by his own weight, blow himself up. But the first personmight not be the right person, you know. Do you still follow me?"
The Honorable William Linder made a remark like a fish.
"Now, we have, if you will forgive my professorial method,"continued Average Jones, "a chair sent to a gentleman of prominencefrom an anonymous source. In this chair is a charge of highexplosive and above it a glass bulb containing sulphuric acid. Thebulb, we will assume, is so safe-guarded as to resist any ordinaryshock of moving. But when this gentleman, sitting at ease in hischair, is noticed by a trombonist, placed for that purpose In thestreet, below--"
"The Dutch horn-player!" cried the politician. "Then it was him;and I'll--"
"Only an innocent tool," interrupted Average Jones, in his turn."He had no comprehension of what he was doing. He didn't understandthat the vibration from his trombone on one particular note by theslide up the scale--as in the chorus of Egypt--would shiver thatglass and set off the charge. All that he knew was to play theB-flat trombone and take his pay."
"His pay?" The question leaped to the politician's lips. "Who paidhim?"
"A man--named--er--Arbuthnot," drawled Average Jones.
Linder's eyes did not drop, but a film seemed to be drawn overthem.
"You once knew--er--a Mrs. Arbuthnot?"
The thick shoulders quivered a little.
"Her husband--her widower--is in Brooklyn. Shall I push theargument any further to convince you that you'd better drop out ofthe mayoralty race?"
Linder recovered himself a little. "What kind of a game are youringing in on me?" he demanded.
"Don't you think," suggested Average Jones sweetly, "thatconsidered as news, this--"
Linder caught the word out of his mouth. "News!" he roared. "Afake story ten years old, news? That ain't news! It's spite work.Even your dirty paper, Waldemar, wouldn't rake that kind of muck upafter ten years. It'd be a boomerang. You'll have to put up astronger line of blackmail and bluff than that."
"Blackmail is perhaps the correct word technically," admitted thenewspaper owner, "but bluff--there you go wrong. You've forgottenone thing; that Arbuthnot's arrest and confession would make thewhole story news. We stand ready to arrest Arbuthnot, and hestands ready to confess."
There was a long, tense minute of silence. Then--
"What do you want?" The straight-to-the-point question was anadmission of defeat.
"Your announcement of withdrawal. I'd rather print that than theArbuthnot story."
There was a long silence. Finally the Honorable Linder dropped hishand on the table. "You win," he declared curtly. "But you'llgive me the benefit, in the announcement, of bad health caused bythe shock of the explosion, to explain my quitting, Waldemar?"
"It will certainly make it more plausible," assented the newspaperowner with a smile.
Linder turned on Average Jones.
"Did you dope this out, young fellow?" he demanded.
"Yes."
"Well, you've put me in the Down-and-Out-Club, all right. And I'mjust curious enough to want to know how you did it."
"By abstaining," returned Average Jones cryptically, "from the bestwine that ever came out of the Cosmic Club cellar."