Four Hours/Chapter 1

by Johnston McCulley

 

CHAPTER I.

THE HOUR OF MYSTERY

JOHN DRATTER shuddered, closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again, and blinked the lids rapidly, but to no avail. The shadows were still there—shadows that moved due to the swinging of the corner arc light in the wind, shadows that seemed to be beckoning, leering, at times snarling.

Dratter had dealt with shadows before. His life had been such that, for the greater part, he kept to himself, and he communed with shadows when other men communed with one another. There had been times when he had grown a bit superstitious regarding shadows, when they had seemed to him to be ghostly forms pointing out the way, or warning, or sneering sarcastically like malevolent foes. John Dratter had fought against the superstition, but never had he conquered it entirely.

Shadows, and the influences of different sections of the city! They were important factors in the life of John Dratter. His career had carried him into the midst of all classes of men, into all kinds of neighborhoods. You could not tell John Dratter that different sections of the city could not influence men strangely.

Why was it that a man felt gay in the district of the bright lights? Why did one feel prosperous in the vicinity of the big shops? Why did a man need only to prowl around the poorer tenements an hour to feel down and out?

Take to-night, for instance. John Dratter certainly was in a poor district now, but it was not the first time. There had been times when he had been a registered guest at a hostelry of the first class, other times when he had not had a crust or a bed. This night he was somewhere between those two extremes.

He glanced down at the pavement, upon which a fine mist had been falling. The shadows were sweeping back and forth as the light at the corner maintaned its erratic swinging. There was no doubt about it—they were beckoning John Dratter.

“And I can't understand them to-night,” he told himself. “Are they trying to tell me to go ahead and do something, or are they just laughing at me in their mean way?”

He shrugged his shoulders and walked on down the street. The night air that blew up from the river chill, and John Dratter wore no overcoat. The mist was still falling, making things disagreeable. He glanced through the window of a pawnshop at a clock; it was two in the morning.

On down the street he walked, shuffling along at a medium gait. At the next corner he came face to face with a policeman.

“Out late, aren't you?” the officer asked.

He was scrutinizing John Dratter closely. Dratter did not have a prosperous appearance. His clothes were ragged, his cap was worn, his shoes were cracked. Any policeman would have hesitated whether to term him an ordinary vagrant or a criminal.

“It is a bit late—or early,” Dratter said.

“Well, where you bound for?” the policeman wanted to know. “I don't care to have men like you prowling around my beat at this hour of the morning.”

“What do you mean by that—by men like me?” Dratter asked hoarsely, “I'm straight—I'm no crook. I've been trying to find work.”

“That's what they all say.”

“And I'm no vag,” Dratter added, “See? I've got a dollar and a half.”

“Why don't you spend some of it on a bed, then?”

“I'm going to, officer. There's a flop joint on the next corner, isn't there?”

“There is. On your way!”

John Dratter bent his head against the falling mist and went on down the street, while the policeman stood on the corner and watched him. But Dratter did not attempt to turn into a side street and make a get-away. He had told the policeman the truth; he was on his way to the “flop joint.”

It was on the corner below, a ramshackle building that had been purchased by well-meaning philanthropists and fitted up with ordinary cots and poor blankets. For ten cents a man could get cot and blanket there, in a room with fifty other men. And he could take a shower bath in the morning, if he wished, or wash out his socks in the basement, or his shirt if he had one that would stand washing. For another ten cents he could get a cup of muddy coffee and some thin doughnuts.

John Dratter swung through the door and shivered with pleasure as the heat of the office struck him. Half a dozen men were scattered around the room, some of them dozing in their chairs. A clerk was behind the low counter.

Dratter proffered a dime and was told to take a certain cot in the room adjoining. He went in and looked at the cot, and tossed his ragged coat across the foot of it. Some twenty men were sleeping in that room, and almost all of them snored. Dratter went back into the office and stood near the radiator, spreading his hands before it.

“Bad night,” he said, to nobody in particular.

Nobody in particular answered him. A grunt came from a man sitting in the nearest corner, his chair propped back against the wall. John Dratter got a chair for himself, and sat down near the radiator. A couple of the others drifted into the sleeping room. Another walked up beside Dratter.

“Why rent a cot and not use it?” he asked.

“It was warmth I wanted more than a place to sleep,” Dratter said. “And a man can't sit in here unless he has paid for a cot. I'm not sleepy—but I was beginning to get cold, and wanted to get in off the street. The cops in this town sure are suspicious.”

“Been bothering you, have they?” the other asked.

John Dratter looked up at him for the first time. And immediately he was interested. The man before him probabaly was fifty years old. His hair was well streaked with gray. His clothes were ordinary and well worn, and his shoes run down at the heels.

But he was no down and outer. John Dratter's quick eyes noted that the man's cheeks were those of one used to frequenting the barber shops where he got the best of care. The skin of his face was well looked after—not spotted with blackheads and dirty wrinkles. His hands were soft, and the nails had known the file of a manicure within a short time, John Dratter felt sure. However, that did not signify. He had known men who would go without a meal to maintain a respectable personal appearance.

“Oh, I don't mind the cops,” Dratter replied. “I suppose they have to bother folks now and then to keep their jobs.”

The other got a chair and sat down beside Dratter.

“We all have our ups and downs,” he said. “I guessed at the first glance that you are a man of wide experience.”

“In some lines I am.”

“I'll bet you've tipped waiters and porters liberally in your time, and slept in silk pajamas.”

“I have, at that,' Dratter said.

“And may again.”

“Naturally, I hope so.

“To-day we are up and to-morrow we are down. Just now we both are down. But I'm not kicking as far as I am concerned. I've nobody but myself, thank Heaven.”

“Same here,” Dratter said.

The other man's eyes flickered an instant.

“No family or relatives?” he asked.

“Not one in all the world,” Dratter replied.

“There are a lot of us like that. And yet, not a man can disappear entirely without somebody missing him. Every man has his friends, of course.”

“Every man has his acquaintances, at least,” Dratter said. “But I haven't even many of those. Nobody would miss me if I disappeared. I don't even owe debts.”

“Well, that's something. I'm glad to meet a man like you. So many men in places like this are ignorant fellows. They can't help it, maybe, but it is no pleasure to talk with them. My name is Granilton.”

“Names don't make any difference, but I don't mind saying that mine is Dratter.”

“Thank you. A man's all right as long as he is not afraid to tell his name. This your first time in this—er—hostelry?”

“Yes.”

“Don't even know our estimable friend, the night clerk?”

“Never saw him before to-night.”

“Stranger in a strange land,” Granilton said. Once more there was a quick gleam in his eyes, but John Dratter did not see it. “Looking for work?”

“Of course,” Dratter said.

The other laughed. “Some of us are fortunate,” he observed. “I could have had a job yesterday, shoveling gravel—but that isn't my line. You got any special line?”

“Not exactly,” Dratter said

Granilton evidently felt that he had gone too far.

“Pardon me for asking,” he said. “I didn't mean anything by it. I just wanted to talk. I've been wanting to talk for a couple of hours, but I could get nothing out of the others except grunts.”

“Why not go to bed?”

“In the midst of all those snores? I'd rather talk, or sleep here in a chair,” said Granilton.

John Dratter felt in a pocket of his ragged coat and brought forth a cigarette paper. He felt in another pocket and found a few crumbs of tobacco. Very deliberately he made his poor cigarette, put it into his mouth, struck a match along the side of his chair, and lighted the smoke. He puffed toward the ceiling, and then turned his head and regarded Granilton again. The others in the office had gone into the sleeping room. The clerk nodded behind his counter.

“What's your game?” Dratter asked suddenly and softly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You're not a down and outer, by any means. Your nails have been manicured within forty-eight hours, Your face and hair show that you have been going to an excellent barber regularly. And you haven't been starving to keep up your personal appearance, either. You've had a square meal within a dozen hours, and I'll bet you haven't missed one within six months,”

“Why, what makes you think——”

Dratter interrupted him.

“And you picked me out and started a conversation. You were particular to find out that I had no relatives or close friends, and that I was even a stranger to the clerk here. As a pumper, you are poor. What's the game? Fly cop? If you are, let me say that you have nothing on me, and never will have.”

“I see that you are an observing man.” Granilton said.

“Couldn't kelp observing—those things; they shriek to heaven,” John Dratter replied. “I'm still waiting for an answer. What's your game?”

Granilton smiled at him, then chuckled deeply.

“I see that I cannot get away with it in your presence,” he said. “You have taught me several things in the last few minutes. Hereafter I shall have my hair disordered, and snag my nails, and try to look like a victim of hunger. But reassure yourself. I am in no way connected with the police.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“I do not approve of the methods of the police,” said Granilton, “and I do not care whether they know it. I have told the commissioner as much.”

“Friend of his?” Dratter asked, the hint of a sneer in his voice.

“An old acquaintance. Since you have penetrated my disguise, I'll tell you the truth, Dratter. I believe you are the proper sort of man, and will not betray my confidence and hinder my work. I am a sort of philanthropist. I suppose the world in general would call it that, though I hate the term. I used to give money away for charity, and I found that my secretaries and some of the charitable organizations, so called, were stealing the funds. The unfortunates for whom the money was intended rarely got it.”

“That's the usual thing.”

“I know it now, but it took me some time to find it out. And then I decided to bestow my gifts first hand. So I have been prowling around here and there and finding men who really needed help and would be glad to get it—not professional bums or drunkards, but men of the right sort, unfortunate for the time being. When I find the right kind of man, I give him the right kind of help. For instance, I believe that you are the right sort of man, and will be glad to help you get on your feet again. Have I your promise not to betray my secret to the others here?”

“Certainly,” said Dratter.

“Thank you. If I can be of help to you, we'll talk of it after you have had your rest. I intend to remain up all night myself, to inspect any late comers. I'd be glad to have you talk with me, unless you want to go to your cot.”

“If I sleep, I'll sleep here in the chair,” Dratter explained. “So don't feel hurt if I drop off while we are talking.”

Granilton had a gleam in his eyes again, and again John Dratter did not see it. Granilton gave Dratter a cigar and lighted one himself, and they maintained a sort of conversation for fifteen minutes or so, during which half a dozen other derelicts came in from the wet street, paid their dimes, and were assigned to cots.

Then Granilton tossed his cigar away and rubbed his hands over his face.

“I—I feel a bit faint,” he said. “I haven't been feeling at all well lately. My physician told me to rest for a time, but I thought his warning was foolishness.”

“Better take it easy,” Dratter said. “Maybe you've been losing too much sleep.”

“Perhaps that is it. I wanted to remain here until dawn, but I don't feel like it. I've been watching to catch a certain man who needs help—a worthy case.”

“Maybe you'd better go home.”

“My house is in the upper end of town, quite a distance from here,” Granilton explained. “I—I am feeling queer. I feel that I should be at home. Just a slight indisposition, I suppose, but——”

“Better have the clerk telephone for a taxicab,” Dratter said. “Show him coin enough, and he'll do it and take the responsibility. You couldn't get a taxi to come down here this hour otherwise.”

“Here,” Granilton said. He took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and gave it to Dratter. “Show that to the clerk—let him hold it if he wishes—and call for a cab. But don't tell him who I am.”

“I'll fix that, all right. I'll hint that you've been out for a good time, that you really have money, that you're getting sick and want to go home.”

“That'll be all right.”

John Dratter approached the clerk, told his story, and heard the clerk telephone for the cab, guaranteeing the fare. And then the clerk walked over to them.

“Very sick?” he asked.

“Just a slight indisposition,” said Granilton. “Sorry to bother you.”

“I didn't think you were a bum,” the clerk said. “You didn't talk or act like it.”

“A man's talk doesn't always count,” put in Dratter. “For instance, I don't find it necessary to mutilate the English language much, yet I hired a ten-cent bed.”

The clerk sniffed and went back to his counter.

“I really do feel a bit ill,” Granilton told Dratter. “My friend, I wish you'd do me a kindness. Ride to my residence with me, and see that I get there safely. You shall be well rewarded. Here—I'll give you five dollars as a guarantee.”

“That's not necessary,” Dratter said. “I have enough to keep me going another day at least. But you're taking a chance. You don't know me. I may rob you in the cab.”

“I don't believe you are the sort to rob a sick man,” Granilton said, “and, besides that, I have only about six dollars left on me now. It wouldn't pay you, especially since I am willing to help you later to get on your feet again.”

John Dratter went into the other room, into the midst of the snoring men, and got his coat from the foot of the cot that had been assigned him. He put on the ragged garment and sat down beside Granilton again. Granilton was holding his head in his hands, and he seemed to tremble now and then.

“I fear that it is an attack of indigestion,” he told Dratter. “I am rather subject to such attacks. I should live a more regular life, I suppose, but I get so much pleasure out of helping others, and I must live irregularly to meet the men I wish to befriend.”

“Here's your taxi?” the clerk called.

The chauffeur regarded them with suspicion until the clerk handed him the five-dollar bill as a guarantee of fare. They went out to the curb, and John Dratter helped Granilton into the machine.

Granilton gave the address, and Dratter repeated it to the chauffeur, and then got into the car himself and closed the door. Dratter was wondering for the moment at the peculiar happenings of which a man may find himself a part; the address Granilton gave was in a district where there were to be found only the homes of millionaires and persons of importance in the social world. Dratter had half doubted the story of Granilton at first.

“Perhaps I'd better open one of the windows. The cold air might help you,” Dratter said.

“I'd rather you wouldn't, thanks. I am feeling a bit better already. I probably ate something yesterday that did not agree with me. My physician is always telling me what not to eat, and I am always forgetting.”

“Are we going to your own home?” Dratter asked.

“Do you think I would bother one of my friends when I am feeling ill?”

“I suppose not,” said Dratter. For the first time since getting into the taxicab, he looked at Granilton with suspicion, but the other man had turned his head and was glancing through the window. One moment Dratter felt that Granilton was all right and the next he felt that Granilton was playing some sort of a game. He remembered the shadows that had danced over the pavement hardly an hour before, that seemed to be laughing at him, sneering at him, mocking, belittling.

The chauffeur was driving at a good rate of speed. Already they had left the cheaper district and had come to one of the wide, straight avenues that led across the city. Through a wholesale district they went, through a jobbing district, through a cañon made by high office buildings where the business of a world was transacted, now and then skirting a tiny park.

And then they were in a district of pretentious residences, a section of wealth and prestige. Here there were few vehicles, fewer pedestrians, and the pavements seemed to glitter beneath the lights. Granilton was holding his head in his hands again, but once he raised it and glanced through the window.

“Almost there,” he said. “It must be indigestion. I am feeling worse again. When we arrive, please dismiss the cab and help me into the house. I don't want to trouble the servants at this unearthly hour. I'll see that you get back downtown all right.”

Dratter did not reply. He waited until the taxicab drew up to the curb and stopped, and then he opened the door and helped Granilton out. The chauffeur proffered a dollar by way of change, and John Dratter took it and gave it to Granilton, The taxicab was driven away.

Then for the first time Dratter looked at the place. It was an imposing sort of palace, with a high wall before it, the home of the ultra-fashionable and the ultra-wealthy. Granilton staggered toward the gigantic bronze gate, and John Dratter took a quick step forward and assisted him.

The gate was not locked. Dratter swung it open and helped the other through, and then closed the gate again and once more took Granilton by the arm.

“Front door, sir?” he asked. Now that Granilton, millionaire, was in his own district, Dratter showed more respect. It was the influence of a city district again. Down in the lower end of town Granilton had been no more than just another human being.

“Not the front door, if you please,” Granilton said. “Turn to the right. There is a little side door to which I have the key. I don't wish to trouble the servants.”

Dratter assisted him around the corner of the mansion and to the little side door. It pleased him to think that Granilton treated his servants with some consideration. He waited until Granilton got a key out of his pocket, unlocked the little door for him, and threw it open. They entered a small hall in which a single incandescent light was burning.

The door closed, and Granilton led the way through the hall, Dratter still supporting him. They passed through another door, through another and wider hall, and so came to a big room in the front of the house on the first floor.

Granilton found the light switch and snapped on the lights. The room was a sort of glorified den, about a dozen times as large as a den should be. There were subdued lights, easy-chairs, smoking stands, books, pictures, trophies of the chase. Granilton waved John Dratter toward one of the easy-chairs, and Dratter sat down.

“I'll be back in a moment,” Granilton said. “Just make yourself at home. I want to take a tablet such as I generally use when I have one of these attacks. And I'll get you some money.”

“Never mind that now, sir,” John Dratter said. “I can go back on the subway, and we can talk later about helping me to get on my feet again. I think that you'd better get to bed, and maybe call your family doctor.”

Granilton went slowly from the room without replying. John Dratter helped himself to a cigar from a humidor on the table beside him, lighted it, and then got up to pace around the room. He felt like a wild beast in a cage, though he could not understand why he should feel so.

Five minutes passed, and then Dratter sat down again beside the table, and wondered how long Granilton would be, and whether he had fainted from his illness. He thought once or twice that he heard a step in the hall, but was not sure. But he did hear the hum of voices in the distance, and supposed that Granilton had awakened some servant and was talking to him.

Then there came the sudden swish of skirts. Dratter looked up from knocking the ashes off his cigar to find a young woman standing in the hall doorway, her face as white as chalk, her hands gripping the swinging portières as though she would fall if she did not cling to them.

John Dratter dropped the cigar into the ash receiver and sprang to his feet. The expression in the young woman's face was one of fear; there could be no mistaking that.

“I—I beg your pardon——” Dratter stammered.

“Go! Go—quickly!” she gasped. Dratter scarcely could hear the words. She glanced back along the hall, and reeled once more. Dratter took a step toward her.

“What is the trouble?” he asked.

“Don't question—go! You must go at once! If you do not——”

There came the sound of more steps from the hall. The young woman gave Dratter a last look of fear and disappeared as if by magic, darted away silently without another word. Dratter started toward the curtained doorway.

He almost crashed into Granilton.

“I did not intend to be so long, Dratter,” Granilton said. “But my tablets——”

“What is the matter with that woman?” Dratter interrupted.

“What woman?”

Dratter stepped into the hall and glanced along it; there was no woman to be seen in either direction.

“A young woman was just in the doorway,” Dratter said. “She was frightened—urged me to get out——”

“Oh! Too bad—too bad! My poor niece, Elizabeth,” Granilton said. “She must have slipped from her room while her nurse was asleep. Poor girl! Touched, you understand. Scarlet fever in her extreme youth ruined her brain forever. I regret that she startled you. She has a habit of slipping away and prowling around the house at night, She probably has returned to her room now.”

“It did startle me a bit,” Dratter admitted.

“And now, please come with me, Dratter. One of the servants was up, and he has prepared a bit of supper for us. I am having it served in my den upstairs. Some nice sandwiches and a cup of good coffee ought not to be amiss.”

“Maybe you'd better go to bed, sir, and——”

“I'm all right, Dratter. I finally found my tablets and took one. Just indigestion—that's all. We'll talk while you are eating. Just come with me.”

Granilton turned and led the way through the long hall and up the stairs. Dratter followed at his heels. He glanced up and down the hall, and into rooms they passed, but he did not see the girl again.

On the second floor, they walked along another hall toward the rear of the house.

“I have a quaint den,” Granilton said. “Here we are.”

He opened a door and stepped aside for Dratter to enter. Dratter did so, and then stood aside in turn. But one light was burning, a little light under a pink shade, and Dratter could make out nothing in the room except a table and chair.

“I'll snap on the lights,” Granilton said.

He closed the door and walked along the hall. Dratter heard the light button snap, and turned to inspect his host's den.

A gasp escaped him, his eyes bulged. Instantly he was on guard. Granilton stood just behind him, chuckling, sneering. But John Dratter was not looking at Granilton.

He found that he was in a large room, evidently one that had been used as a ballroom. It was furnished lavishly. Expensive rugs were on the floor, the furniture was massive. In the center of the room was a long, polished table surrounded by heavy chairs. In one of these chairs a man was lashed—a man of perhaps fifty, of prosperous appearance, a man with the fear of death in his eyes. Four other men were sitting near the table, and all of them were masked.

“Here is our man,” Granilton said. “Do you think he'll do?”

There was a moment of silence. John Dratter saw the eyes of the four masked men glittering through their masks. They evidently were appraising him.

“What does this mean?” Dratter demanded, turning upon Granilton.

“Take it easy,” advised Granilton. “It means, my dear sir, that you were decoyed here, if you want to know. That was a nice story I told down at the lodging house, wasn't it? And I'm some actor when it comes to playing sick, eh?”

“But—what's the idea?” Dratter wanted to know.

“You'll discover that presently.”

“Why not tell me now?”

“Presently—presently,” Granilton said. “The gentlemen have not approved of you yet, you know.”

Dratter once more regarded the four masked men. He started to step toward them, but Granilton grasped him by an arm, and it was not the grasp of a sick man.

“Well, it's a sure thing you didn't bring me here to rob me,” Dratter said. “I haven't anything worth stealing. I suppose this is some more of the old stuff. You want a man to do some dirty work; you pick one from the down and outers, offer a chunk of cash—and all that. Well?”

“In such case, you'd be willing?” Granilton asked.

“Possibly.”

“But it doesn't happen to be a case like that. As you remarked, that is old stuff. It is nothing like that, I assure you.”

Dratter looked toward the masked men gain. One of them lifted his hand toward Granilton,

“I think the man will do,” he said. “What did you ascertain, Granilton?”

“No relatives, no friends, few acquaintances. The lodging-house clerk never saw him before. This is the only address that was overheard, and that will not bother us, of course—will work in our favor, if anything.”

“A likely victim, then.”

“He appears so to me,” Granilton said.

“Very well, he is accepted.”

The man who spoke raised his hands and took off his mask, and the other three men did the same. Dratter looked at them in amazement. Two of them were as old as Granilton, the other two men of perhaps thirty years. Not one of them looked like a criminal. All were well dressed, their faces well cared for, their manner that of men used to the good things in life.

“What's this mean?” Dratter asked again.

Two of the men laughed. One spoke to Granilton.

“Sure he isn't The Chameleon?”

“Scarcely,” Granilton said.

“Or Detective Slone?”

“Does he look it, talk it?” Granilton asked. “He is a safe man, all right.”

Dratter had not forgotten the elderly man lashed to the chair. He had spoken a word, though he was not gagged. But now he spoke.

“Cowards! Filthy beasts!”

“Your opinion carries little weight with us, Mr. Waldorp,” Granilton answered him. “Hard words will not save you, you know. Better spend your time in prayer.”

“Why entice an innocent man?” Waldrop asked. “Too cowardly to do it yourselves, are you?”

“We have a little score to settle with The Chameleon, too, you know. Two birds with a single stone. Understand? And we'll give you a great send-off, Waldorp—your name on the first page of all the newspapers, you know. You'll not be able to see it, perhaps, but you can relish the fact now. Always liked publicity, didn't you?”

“You fiend!” Waldorp exclaimed.

John Dratter sprang to the end of the table.

“I want to know what all this means!” he cried. “Why was I decoyed here? What can you gentlemen have to do with me? I'm just a down and outer.”

“It is an interesting story,” Granilton said. “It is no more than right that you should be entertained by it. In fact, we intend to give you excellent entertainment for an hour or so. They feed a condemned man well, you know.”

“What do you mean?” Dratter cried again.

Granilton pointed to a chair at one end of the table.

“Sit down,” he commanded. “The door is locked; the other is guarded, and all of us are armed.”

Dratter sat down. Granilton raised his voice. “Barnes!” he called.

The door on the opposite side of the big room was opened, and a man hurried in. He was a giant of a man, with a face not unhandsome, with a firm chin and narrow eyes.

“Barnes, go down to the first floor and prowl around for a time,” Granilton directed. “We'll call, if we have need of you. If you see that girl——”

“I put her back in her room a few minutes ago, and locked the door on the outside,” Barnes interrupted.

“Very good! Watch around, Barnes; we do not care to be interrupted, you know.”

Barnes went out, closing the door after him. Granilton himself sat down beside the table, and looked at the bound Mr. Waldorp. He grinned as he lighted a cigar, and offered Dratter one, which refused. Smiling at the men who had been masked, he said:

“Yes, it is an interesting story, Dratter, have you ever heard of The Chameleon?”

“Certainly. It is a lizard——”

“That changes its skin—its color, eh? But I mean The Chameleon, who might be termed a sort of master criminal,”

“I believe I've read something, but not enough to——”

“I see that I must explain everything,” Granilton said. “There is a criminal known as The Chameleon, Whenever he or some of his men commit a crime, they leave on the scene a small square of paper, upon which is printed the picture of a chameleon. He gets his name from that, and also from the fact that, like the chameleon, he never looks the same twice. Few men have seen him and known he was The Chameleon. He has one or two trusted lieutenants, but the others who work for him never see him. Yet he has been seen.

“Sometimes he is well dressed and living at the best hotels. At other times he is a laborer, thus getting information to use later. He has been a sailor, a cowboy, a railroad man, a broker, even has posed as a minister. He is quite an unusual personage.”

“Well, what about him?” Dratter asked.

“He worries the police considerably, of course. They cannot catch The Chameleon or any of his band. They are ready to lay almost every important crime at The Chameleon's door. So why not please the police? If you are to commit a crime, why not put the blame on The Chameleon? Eh?”

“I don't know what you mean,” said Dratter.

“Softly! We'll get at it soon,” Granilton told him. “These four men are my friends and associates. There used to be six of us. Mr. Waldorp, strapped in the chair there, was one of us once. I don't mind telling you that we were expert thieves. There should be some word to distinguish us from ordinary thieves. We were superexcellent. We worked in European cities for the greater part—played the society game, got jewels, and all that sort of thing.”

“You've got a nerve to tell me that,” said Dratter.

“We were not in the least alarmed. You'll never be able to inform on us, you see,” Granilton declared suggestively. “To continue with the story, Waldorp decided, a couple of years ago, that he would retire. Fancy that! He had a fortune, of course; all of us are wealthy men. He wanted to turn honest and die a respectable citizen, or something like that. No family, either, except a niece, the woman you saw downstairs. He told us he wanted to be decent and have his niece for his ward—her folks had died.

“We objected, of course. We hated to see him turn straight. It wasn't exactly that, either, but we were a little afraid of him. Well, we let him go. He came here and purchased this fine house, took in his precious niece, tried to get her into society, mind you, and posed himself as a wealthy Englishman, bookworm, patron of the arts, and all that rot.

“Nothing wrong in that, of course. But he couldn't forget his prior association with us. He grew religious, or something like that, and dropped a hint that caused one of us to spend a year in prison. The unfortunate man got out two months ago. Understand? Traitor—this Waldorp! No honor among thieves with him. So, naturally, we decided to punish him.

“We wanted to work in this country for a time, anyway. So we got busy. And an American detective got on our trail after our first big haul. His name is Slone. Works for a big gem insurance company. None of us knows him by sight; he's as bad as The Chameleon. See our situation? We wanted to throw this Slone off the track, and at the same time get square with Waldorp, the traitor.”

“A traitor because I mended my ways!” Waldorp said.

“We have tried and condemned you,” Granilton reminded him. “Say no more about it. To resume, Dratter, we finally worked out a plan. We would make Waldorp pay the penalty, and we would see that the blame was placed on The Chameleon. This detective, Slone, has been messing around with Waldorp a bit. If we succeed, he will think he has been on the wrong track—that The Chameleon is the man he should pursue. Understand? He'll think The Chameleon was one of the band to which Waldorp belonged.

“So we have planned it out. Just the five of us worked on it. Barnes helped, of course. Barnes is a man we picked up a few months ago; he's a handy man—does dirty work for us. But we didn't want to get rid of Barnes. He's a good man to have around. So we decided to get more help.”

“I suppose you mean me?”

“Precisely. I went down in the lower end of town in search of some man who had no relatives, whom nobody knew, a man suitable for our purpose. I found you, decoyed you here, and my friends have agreed that you will do.”

“But what——”

“Softly!” repeated Granilton. “You shall have the entire story. We are going to deal with Waldorp, the traitor. We are going to kill him, if you want to know.”

Granilton spoke in cold tones. Dratter drew in his breath sharply.

“I'll kill no man, no matter how much money you offer,” he said.

“We are not asking you to kill a man. The executioner already has been appointed. It is fitting that the man who spent the year in prison should have his revenge. After he is killed, Dratter, we deal with you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“We are eager to save our own skins, of course. And we want this Detective Slone to think that one of The Chameleon's men did the killing. We are going to stamp the replica of a chameleon on one of your arms, Dratter. We are going to put into one of your pockets half a dozen of those little cards The Chameleon always leaves behind him. And then we are going to hit you on the back of the head.”

“Kill me, too? Why?” Dratter shrieked.

“Certainly we are not going to kill you. We are going to hit you on the back of the head. Then we take you, unconscious, to the street. We raise quite a row, and the police come. We declare, the five of us, that we were passing the house and heard screams, calls for help, and that you came running out and we stopped you, had to knock you down to do it.

“Our story is all ready, Dratter. We have been spending the night at a house one of us rents not far from here. We have been having a party. Old friends—one of us going to California on business—the ticket in his pocket, even. Oh, we have overlooked nothing. We have identities, businesses; the police may investigate us to their hearts' content.

“You'll be charged with the killing of Waldorp. You'll declare that you are not guilty, that you know nothing of The Chameleon. You will tell the true story—and how preposterous it will sound with the five of us against you! What man will believe it? We go on our way satisfied; Detective Slone thinks he has been on the wrong track, and starts looking for The Chameleon. Everything will be lovely. They will send you to the electric chair, of course. But you amount to nothing, anyway.

“You devils!” Dratter cried.

He sprang from the chair, and quickly sank back into it. The four men at the table were covering him with automatics.

“Understand, Dratter?” Granilton wanted to know. “I told you that the story would be interesting.

“But there's a flaw in it,” Dratter said. “How about Mr. Waldorp's niece? She'll swear that you men were here, that she knew there was something wrong, that you brought me——”

Granilton laughed.

“That is the climax,” he said. “That is the thing that is going to make them rush you to the chair without mercy or sympathy, that will make Detective Slone all the more eager to run down The Chameleon—and, incidentally, leave us alone to play our regular game. You see, Dratter, the niece is to be killed, too. We will stage it well. It will look as if she had rushed to her uncle's assistance, and had been struck down by the brute with the stamp of The Chameleon on his arm.”

“You beasts!” Dratter screeched, “You——”

Granilton laughed aloud.

“As if we cared what you called us!” he said. “It will be a good joke on The Chameleon—who claims, I believe, that he and his men never kill. And it will be an excellent jest on Detective Slone.”