Against Odds: A Detective Story

There was no more to be learned up-town. Gerald Trent had been last seen at the viaduct at the foot of Van Buren Street, where the 'cattle cars,' the 'Suburban,' and numerous boats left the Lake Front and the wharf beyond en route for the Fair City. This was at ten o'clock a.m., or near it.

I went back to the Fair City, as Trent had last gone, upon the Suburban train; and before noon had begun an exploration, in the vicinity of the north entrance, for the rooms engaged by him.

Bounding the Fair City on the west was the street known as Stony Island Avenue, and after a short survey of such near portions of this street as I had not seen, I satisfied myself that young Trent would not have selected it as a place of abode for his lady mother, his sister, and his sweetheart. One block westward, running south from Fifty-seventh, was a short street called Rosalie Court, and after exploring this I pushed on to Washington Avenue, and then to Madison, running respectively one and two blocks parallel with Rosalie Court.

Something impelled me to pass by Washington Avenue, upon which Miss Jenrys and her aunt were lodged, and to explore the farther avenue first.

'If the rooms are within two or three blocks of the north entrance,' I said to myself, 'and if they are upon this street, I shall find them within one block north or south from this corner,' meaning Fifty-seventh Street, and I turned southward and began my search in earnest.

Not long since this part of the city had been a beautiful suburb, and the pretty cottages and more stately villas were, for the most part, isolated in the midst of their own grounds. Every other house it seemed, and some of the most pretentious, bore upon paling, piazza, or door-post the legend 'Rooms to Let,' and I applied and entered at a number of handsome and home-like portals, first upon the east side and then upon the west, crossing at Fifty-eighth Street to turn my face northward.

At Fifty-seventh I paused. 'It is something more than two blocks from the Fair entrance to this point,' I mused, 'and therefore I ought to go but one block in this direction.' But when I had traversed the block to Fifty-sixth Street, with no success, I crossed the street and went on, saying, 'It's easy for a stranger to be mistaken in a matter of distance.' At the north end of this square stood a large old-fashioned mansion, of a decidedly Southern type. It stood upon terraced grounds, and was a dignified reminder of better days, with its stained and time-roughened stuccos, and the worn paint about the ornate cornices. 'Rooms to Let' was the sign upon a tree-trunk, and after some doubt and hesitation, I went up the terraced steps, crossed the lawn, and rang a bell much newer than its surroundings.

Once admitted to the wide, inviting hall, with its glimpse of cheerful dining-room beyond, and a large cool parlour opening at the side, I felt that Trent might well have sought quarters in this roomy, airy house; and when the 'lady of the house,' a woman small, elderly, delicate, and refined, appeared before me, I put my question hopefully.

'Madam, have you among the inmates of your house a Mr. Gerald Trent?' I saw by her sudden change of countenance that the name was not strange to her, and was not surprised when she informed me that a Mr. Trent had engaged her best suite of rooms for himself and four others; that he had called upon her on the Monday previous, paid her an advance upon the rooms, and informed her that his friends would arrive in three days, if not sooner.

'They should have been here,' she concluded, 'the day before yesterday, but they have not appeared, and we have had no word from them. It is very inconvenient for me. Of course, the rooms are secured until Monday, but I have no means of knowing if they will come then; or when I may consider them at my disposal.'

It was evident she had not seen the papers, and I at once put the notice in her hand, and told her the nature of my business.

There seemed but one opinion of Gerald Trent. When she had read the paper and heard my statement, she said, at once, what the inmates of the hotel had said before her:

'Something has happened him. He never went away like this of his own accord. I never saw a more simple and sincere young man.' And then, as if by an afterthought, 'He had too much money about him; he was too well dressed, and – I don't think he was of a suspicious nature.'

I learned from her very little to help my further search. Trent had met none of the guests of the house upon either of his visits there. In reply to a question, she had said:

'He seemed in the best of spirits when he paid the advance money and went away; and he said that he meant to spend the day in the Plaisance. I remember that he laughed when he said this, and added something to the effect that he wanted to decide, before the ladies came, where it would pay to go on the Plaisance, and what were the things they would not care for. He had a rather frank and boyish way of expressing himself.'

'And you think he went from here to the Fair?'

'I believe he went from here to Midway Plaisance. There is an entrance on this street, three blocks south, and I walked to the door with him and pointed the way to it.'

And this was all. Of course I took from her lips, as from the people up-town, a minute description of Trent's dress and appearance on the day of his disappearance, and then I went back to the Fair by the Midway gate, and wished impatiently for the time to come when I should meet Brainerd and consult with him. This I knew would not be until a late hour, and as I lounged down the Plaisance I began to look about for the handsome guard, in whom I had taken a decided interest.

I found him easily – as erect, soldierly, attentive to duty as usual – and we spent the greater part of two hours chatting, while we paced up and down Midway. He was a bright talker, and he entertained me with a number of amusing incidents, graphically related, and illustrative of the life of the Plaisance.

During the two hours, however, I broke the monotony of a continuous tramp by an excursion, now on one side and then on the other; now to see the glass-blowers; now the submarine exhibit; and, lastly, to the Irish village that clustered about Blarney Castle.

It was on my return from this that, as I approached him, I saw, with some surprise, that he was in earnest conversation with a woman, and as I came nearer and he shifted his position slightly, I saw that the woman was none other than that ignis fatuus the brunette. Her back was toward me, and she was squarely facing him, so that, as I came nearer and directly toward them, I caught his eye, and, nodding with a gesture which I think he understood, I turned away and watched the manœuvres of 'the little mystery,' as Brainerd so often called the brunette, wondering if this unknown guard was also to be enmeshed in the plot she seemed to be weaving. And then there flashed into my mind that first meeting with the guard, and his avowed acquaintance with Miss Jenrys. Was this interview in any way connected with or concerning her?

The brunette had not seen me; of that I was quite assured, and even so I had small fear of recognition, for while I had not, on the occasion of our two meetings face to face, worn any disguise, I was confident that the widely different garments worn on the two occasions, together with my ability to elongate, twist, and change my features, and to alter the pitch of my voice, was masquerade sufficient. But I did not desire to become known to this anomalous personage, and I lingered here and there, within sight and at a safe distance, until I saw her nod airily and trip away, flinging a smile over her shoulder.

In the time spent in waiting the end of this little dialogue I had decided that I must know this young man – so reticent, yet so frank – better, and that I must win his confidence, and to do this perfect frankness, I knew, would be my best aid.

When the 'mystery' was safely out of sight, and on this occasion I had no desire to follow her, I rejoined the guard, and I was sure that I surprised upon his face a look of perplexity and annoyance, which vanished when I put my hand upon his arm, and, falling into step with him, began:

'I hope you understood my meaning when I went into ambush so suddenly? I really did not care to encounter your friend.'

'That is hardly the right name, seeing that the lady is a stranger to me,' he replied, slightly smiling.

'Indeed!' I retorted. 'Then may I wager that I know what she had to say to you?' I saw him flush, and his lips compress themselves as if to hold back some hasty speech, but I went lightly on: 'That is the young person who claimed the bag belonging to your acquaintance – you remember the circumstance – and if she is still as angry at me as she was on that day she was doubtless imploring you to "run me in," and put me in more irons than Christopher Columbus ever wore. Honestly now, am I not right?'

He was silent and seemed perplexed again, and I promptly changed my tone. 'If I am mistaken, and if the young woman is someone you know, I beg your pardon; but, remembering how she turned her look upon you on the occasion of that first meeting – '

'One moment,' he broke in. 'It is possible that we have been unjust in this case, and I think I may tell you, without a breach of confidence, what this young lady' – I thought he emphasized the 'lady' somewhat – 'who by-the-by is a stranger to me, had to say just now.'

I bowed my assent, lest speech might cause a discussion, and he went on:

'The young lady, after excusing herself for doing what she termed an unconventional thing in addressing me, asked at once after you.'

'After me? But – go on.'

'She spoke of you as "the person" I was talking with on the day when her friend lost her bag and she tried to reclaim it, and when I disclaimed all knowledge of you, she told me how "cavalierly" – that is also her word – you refused to yield up the bag, and how anxiously her friend was hoping to secure that bag – even yet.'

'Ah! Indeed!'

'You will pardon me,' he went on, not heeding my interjection, and speaking with marked courtesy, 'but I almost fear you have mistaken this young lady.'

'Why?'

'Because she not only gave me the name of the owner of the bag, but she assured me that the lady recognised me in passing, a thing which I regret, and she called me by my name.'

Here was a coil indeed. My head was a nest of queer thoughts and suspicions, but I kept to the subject by asking:

'And may I ask how you replied to all this?'

'In the only way I could. You were a stranger, who was anxious, I felt sure, to restore the bag to its owner. You had assured me of this much. As to your address, I could not give it, and your name I did not know; but I added the promise that should I chance to meet you, as I might, I would ask you to send the bag to the lady's address.'

'Pardon – was this the lady's proposition?'

'No. She asked me to get it from you – the bag.'

'And to restore it through her?'

'Yes.'

'And the address? Did she give you the young lady's address, the owner's, or her own?'

'She gave the owner's address.'

'Then if you will give it to me I can promise that to-morrow will see the little bag in its owner's possession.'

He took from his pocket a visiting card, upon which was engraved the name June E. Jenrys, and underneath in pencil the address.

I had seen just such a card, minus the pencilled address, in Miss Jenrys' card-tray on Washington Avenue; and that pencilled address! It was that of the café to which Miss Jenrys was to send her note concerning the evening excursion.

I had not spoken of the adventure of the bag during the afternoon, and I had not meant to do so. Since our last meeting my position in relation to Miss Jenrys had been changed. I was now in some degree the guardian of her interests, and while I believed in and admired this handsome and secretive stranger guard, and might have entrusted him with a secret all my own, perhaps, my mouth was closed concerning the young lady whom he professed to know yet was unwilling to meet.

As I looked at the tall, lithe figure, the erect head and handsome face, I wondered what this mystery could be which caused him to withhold his name from those who might be his friends; to shun a lovely girl whom he knew and in whom he was evidently interested; and, above all, which linked him, as was now fairly proven, through the wily brunette, with the strange pursuit of Miss Jenrys. Was it possible, I asked myself, that this medley of mysterious happenings could reach back through the brunette to Greenback Bob, the counterfeiter, and Delbras, the king of confidence men?