# The Surakarta/Chapter 13

XIII
A FIRE AT THE TONTY
It appeared a strange thing that Max, who had experienced and observed so many remarkable occurrences in so many parts of the world, should find it necessary to ask help of detective McAdams; and the person to whom this appeared strange was McAdams himself, who had not forgotten that Max had called him a "dunderhead."
The detective had watched the lobby of the Tonty thin of its unusual crowd of curiosity seekers as the hour grew late; he had seen the bootblack stand closed for the night, and he was contemplating a visit to the bar, ​where society was still to be found, when he saw Max come in and stand looking around.
McAdams drew quickly back toward the elevators to watch him without being observed. He recollected that although the little German appeared to be in Hereford's confidence, Max, before the theft, had had more information than anybody else in Chicago about the Surakarta and the box in which it was kept. Max's visit, therefore, alone and at so late an hour, appeared a suspicious circumstance to McAdams. But Max, as soon as he saw the detective, went up to him and shook hands.
"I wass looking here for you, my friendt," Max announced affably, "to see if you know perhaps if the Javanese haf yet gone to bed. Because I think I now must again see that room."
​"Why?" McAdams demanded, staring at him suspiciously.
"Because I think I did not opserve eferyting there as attentively as I should haf done. But it iss certain they would not let me in again alone; but with you—with Detective McAdams," Max urged flatteringly—"then I can get in."
McAdams led the way to the elevators. He was not at all deceived by Max's conciliating smile, but he was curious to see for what real purpose Max wanted to be admitted again to the Javanese rooms.
But when they reached the tenth floor, and were admitted after a long parley with the Javanese, Max did nothing which seemed to account in any way for his eagerness to get there.
One of the two Javanese, who by Baraka's ​order kept close to them, switched on the light. The German stood silent. He seemed merely inspecting again the disorder of the place. He examined no more closely, so far as McAdams could tell, the strange box which still stood among its litter of torn paper than he did the bed; he did not go near to the tapestry or the bloodstains. Only at the conclusion of the examination he gave a satisfied smile.
"That is enough," he announced. "Now we can go."
"Well?" McAdams demanded when they were in the elevator again.
"Well what?" Max inquired blandly.
"Did you find anything new?"
But to this Max made no reply. He only nodded to McAdams, as they reached the first floor, and turned away.
​The detective made a step to follow Max, and suddenly halted. He looked back at the almost empty lobby, scratched his head, and then with equal suddenness and new determination hastened after the German to the entrance of the hotel.
Concealing himself behind one of the entrance pillars, he watched Max, under the blazing electric lights of the Tonty, disappear among the thinning crowd of taxicabs. But almost immediately the German re-appeared upon the darker opposite side of the street. McAdams allowed him two hundred feet start and then followed, assured that Max had not seen him. As often as Max turned a corner, the detective ran swiftly forward, halted, and allowed Max to regain the lead he had had in the beginning. But the theatre crowd had dispersed two hours ​before, and he found no difficulty in keeping his eye upon the German, as he plodded steadily along the almost empty walks. When they had traveled three-quarters of a mile in this way, Max turned into a two-story frame building which seemed curiously out of place among the towering structures around. His feet could be heard loudly going up to the second floor within.
But no light sprang up in the windows of this second floor, and after waiting, McAdams made his way around to the rear. A little garden here entangled the detective's feet, which in the darkness he felt sink to the ankles in soft earth. On the second floor, some strange huge bird flapped its wings and uttered a sleepy cry; some other animal moved and noisily yawned. Very slowly it ​became clear to Detective McAdams that this was where Max Schimmel lived.
The detective himself yawned, and struck a match and looked at his watch. He had found it produced a good impression on his clients for him to stay up all night, and that it caused no great inconvenience to himself as he was not one of those who find it difficult to sleep during the day. But when he saw that it was two o'clock he commenced to consider the advisability of going home to bed.
He walked slowly back in the direction he had come, waiting for a surface car. The few upon the sidewalks now had disappeared and this, as McAdams turned a corner, made more evident to him the crowd that had gathered before the Tonty. He saw, as he hurried up, the red motor truck of an insur​ance patrol. He found the corridor of the tenth floor filled with heavy smoke and crowded with the firemen and attendants of the hotel. Fighting and elbowing his way through the hall, he reached the entrance to the Javanese suite, and finally gained Baraka's room.
This—and even more plainly the inner room next, from which the Surakarta had so mysteriously disappeared—had been the scene of the fire. The doors stood open and the rooms were in confusion, and he could see through the doorway the strange Java box with the paper burned away from it, standing among the room's charred furnishings.