# How Many Cards?/Chapter 21

pp. 279–292.

### CHAPTER XXI
#### MC CARTY OPENS THE POT

LEAVING the apartment of Samuel Vedder, McCarty parted with the reluctant Dennis and took the taxicab down to the Cosmopolitan Club. For the first time in his career he wanted to pursue his investigation without the companionship and comments of his old friend, and if he felt the satisfaction of achievement and the one-time zest of the chase it was not evident in the stern set of his countenance.
The doorman at the gloomy portals of the exclusive club was most impressive in appearance and disposed at first to be supercilious, but when McCarty disclosed the purpose of his errand and hinted at a social scandal that might spread to the very foundations of the aristocratic institution, if the information which he sought in order to hush the matter up were not forthcoming, the factotum bundled him hurriedly into the coat-room, dismissed the attendant there with a lordly wave of his hand and closed the door.
"What is it you want to know, sir?" he asked with a look of pained resignation. "This is most irregular, and I ought to take you to a member of the house committee, but the quieter we can keep anything of this sort the better. There's not been a scandal connected with the club these twenty years—"
"That's all right; there won't be now if you'll find out what I want to know for me," McCarty assured him. "Do you know Mr. Douglas Waverly?"
"Of course, sir." The man's tone was noncommittal, but his expression spoke volumes.
"Then I suppose I needn't tell you who has decided to find out at last what he is doing when he's not home." McCarty winked deliberately. "Now, we know all right, but it's our business to hand in a report that'll let him out, see? He was here last Thursday afternoon late, wasn't he?"
"I don't know, but I can find out for you." The man looked his contempt for the shady private detective he believed the other to be. "I only come on at eight o'clock. Mr. Waverly may have been here earlier but he came in a little before nine o'clock."
Nine o'clock! So another part of Waverly's alibi was untrue! He had said that he had gone directly from Sharp's Chophouse to see the last act of "The Girl from Paradise," and from there to Vedder's apartment.
"Was Mr. Waverly alone? Did he stay long?" McCarty asked.
"No, sir. He only remained about a quarter of an hour and he was looking for some one." The man spoke with evident hesitation. "It may have been an appointment, but I couldn't say. Mr. Waverly seemed much annoyed, sir."
"Was he in a temper?"
"He was. It isn't proper for us to discuss the members of the club, sir, but a fat man like Mr. Waverly oughtn't to get himself all worked up the way he does. He'll drop dead some day right here and there's bound to be unpleasant comment in the papers. I thought myself that he would have a stroke that night!"
"And who was he looking for?" McCarty saw the man's color change.
"I really don't know, sir. I didn't hear him say—"
"Oh, that's all right." McCarty laughed. "If it was Eugene Creveling, the man who was shot that night, you needn't be afraid to say so. I've got a friend in the homicide bureau down at headquarters, and he says they know all about the quarrel between Mr. Waverly and Mr. Creveling and that it doesn't cut any ice; they know the fellow that did the shooting and they're going to spring it as soon as they get a little more evidence."
"Yes, it was Mr. Creveling whom Mr. Waverly was looking for, and it was just as well he wasn't here or there would have been a scene," the man admitted confidentially. "Mr. Waverly was purple in the face and the language he used wasn't fit to be heard in the club, but it was quiet here and few of the members were around. A telephone call came for Mr. Waverly, though, and after he'd answered it he calmed down."
"What time was this?"
"Only a minute or so after nine; he couldn't have been here more than ten minutes then."
"Who was the call from?"
"I don't know, sir." The man hesitated once more. "The boy at the switchboard told me about it after, or I wouldn't have known he got a call. He must have sent for his car right away, for in another five minutes it was at the door and he drove off. I haven't seen him since; he hasn't been around the club, at least not in the evening."
"And how did he seem when he drove off? Was he over his fit of temper?"
"Oh, quite. He chuckled when he took the wheel."
"Then he drove himself? Which car did he take out that night?"
"His fast roadster, sir. Yes, Mr. Waverly drove himself and he told the man who brought the car down from the garage that he didn't know when he would send it back; he'd call up if he wanted him to come anywhere for it."
"Didn't one of his own chauffeurs bring the car around, then?"
"No. I think both of them are down at his country place, and Mr. Waverly keeps the car in a public garage when his town house is closed up."
"What garage?" McCarty persisted.
"The Porter-Adams, up on East Eightieth Street."
"What is the number of Mr. Waverly's roadster? Did you ever notice?"
"Of course. I know the numbers of all the members' cars. His is '0479-X. New York.'"
The doorman was evidently growing restless under the interrogation, and McCarty turned as though to take his departure, but halted.
"You say you don't know who that telephone call came from, but the boy at the switchboard would know, wouldn't he? I don't belong to any swell clubs myself, but don't people usually give their names when they call up? Isn't that a rule?"
"It is the custom, sir," the man stammered. "I'll see if the boy knows, but it would be as much as my position here is worth if you told who gave you any information and I've been here a matter of twenty-four years."
"I won't give you away," McCarty promised. "I think we know who the party is but no names will be mentioned."
Reluctantly the man vanished upon his errand and McCarty paced back and forth while he waited. He was making definite progress at last, yet still there was no elation in his manner but rather an odd weariness and doubt. Would the case work out to the end as he had planned or at the last moment would there be some hitch, the occurrence of some untoward incident which might necessitate a fresh start from the very beginning?
When the doorman returned he was shaking his head.
"There was no name given, sir. The boy asked for it, but the party 'phoning said it would not be necessary, that Mr. Waverly expected the call."
"But 'twas a lady, wasn't it?" McCarty eyed him narrowly.
"Yes, sir. It was a lady."
McCarty left the club and turned north on the Avenue until he came to the park when he struck westward. It was close on to three o'clock in the morning and although he had not closed his eyes on the previous night he felt in no mood for sleep. The evidence which he had collected was purely of a negative nature thus far, but as plainly as though he had himself been present he could now trace in his mind every incident of that fateful Thursday night. But would he be able, when the moment came, to lay his cards upon the table with enough circumstantial evidence to carry conviction? Proof was not to be hoped for since no living being but Creveling himself and one other had been within those walls when the shot was fired and McCarty knew that a confession was not to be thought of, unless...
He reached his rooms at last, healthily fatigued after his long walk to find that a note had been thrust under his door. It was from Inspector Druet, and read in part:
   "Dear Mac:
   "Fine work recovering emeralds, but where have you been? Why don't you keep me posted on movements? Tried to get you all evening. Think I'm on track at last of man who killed—"
"May the devil and all his relations take him and his 'tracks'!" cried McCarty aloud and without troubling to read further he tore the note in two and flung it in exasperation into the waste basket. Then he turned out the light and went to bed.
The sun was high when he awakened and after a hasty breakfast at the little nearby restaurant and a glance at the papers he started downtown once more and across to the Porter-Adams garage. He had purposely neglected to shave and the old suit which he had donned was unpressed and shiny as to seams, while the usual derby had been replaced by a shabby cap set at a decidedly rakish angle, which concealed a long strip of perfectly superfluous surgical plaster. He looked every inch a middle-aged mechanic, hard-working but with "failure" written upon his lugubrious countenance.
The garage proved to be a large one and from the costly types of the cars which filled every available foot of space it was evident that it catered to an exclusive class of private trade. A man in overalls with an oil-rag in his hand slouched in the entrance-way and glanced up half surlily as McCarty halted before him.
"Does a guy named Waverly keep his car here?" the latter asked without preamble.
The man spat and wiped a grimy hand across his mouth before he responded:
"What's it to you if he does?"
"It's a lot to me!" McCarty seconded the truculent tone of the other. "I've been looking for him ever since I got out of the hospital."
"What's the matter?" The man straightened with a show of interest and eyed the thick-set figure before him appraisingly. "Had a run-in with him? You'd ought to have been able to knock him out all right; he's all flabby fat."
His tone was contemptuous and McCarty retorted:
"I've had no chance at him yet, but wait till I get hold of him, that's all! A fellow standing by when he ran into me told me his number while I was waiting for the ambulance. It's '0479-X New York,' isn't it? And his car is a long, low roadster with an engine built like a racer?"
The other nodded.
"You got a straight tip; there's the car over there now." He pointed toward the farther side of the garage. "How did it happen?"
"So that's it, is it? That's the road-louse that busted my taxicab?" McCarty doubled one fist significantly. "And the rotter that was behind the wheel driving off like the devil and leaving me for dead for all he knew, or cared! I'm going to have the law on him good and proper but I'll take a little of it out on his hide first! A decent, hard-working man ain't got a chance to make a living these days with guys like him hogging the road and riding over him."
"That's right!" the other agreed. "Was it your own cab?"
"Sure." McCarty was succeeding in working himself up into a well-simulated state of ire. "I just got it paid off two weeks ago and I've been too busy to look after the insurance."
"Tough luck!" The man spat again. "It ain't a complete wreck, is it? You can get it patched up?"
"'Wreck'?" McCarty snorted. "I'm lucky if I don't lose my license for leaving a heap of junk obstructing the road! Who is this guy Waverly, anyway? I've just come from the license bureau where I went to look up his number."
"Oh, he's one of the big stiffs from the Avenue." The man gestured toward the park. "Got a bunch of dough but he's a tight-wad; hope you sting him good! He's more trouble than anybody else who leaves their cars here; always kicking, and bullying, and flying into a rage over nothing, and getting his damned little bus out all hours, but the tips he hands out in a month wouldn't buy you a square meal! He's the kind, all right, that would side-swipe you from behind and ride off and give you the laugh!"
"That's just what he did to me, but I'm laughing now!" McCarty said grimly. "It ain't only my cab he'll pay for, but my twelve-dollar fare that I had rung up, to say nothing of my bu'sted head and shoulder and the loss of my time!—Look here!"
He lifted the cap for an instant displaying the long strip of plaster and the other grunted sympathetically.
"Make him dig down deep; it'll serve him right! Say, what happened to your fare? Was the party hurt too?"
"No, only shook up bad. He hired me to take him out to his home in Greenwich and I didn't get the location of his house or I'd know where to find him for a witness. He said he'd direct me when we got into the burg." McCarty lied glibly. "He skipped before I came to."
"Say! When did this happen?" the man demanded suddenly.
"Last Thursday night, nearer Friday morning. Four days have I laid on the flat of my back in the hospital—"
"Thursday night!" the other repeated. "That accounts for it!"
"Accounts for what?" McCarty felt at last the old thrill of exultation. Was his long-drawn-out histrionic effort to be rewarded?
"Why, the bent mud-guard and the twisted axle and the blood on him!" the man explained. "I worked all Thursday night, taking the place of one of the other fellows that had been hurt when a car was backed in. Waverly sent for his little bus about nine o'clock from one of his clubs, and it was after four in the morning when he drove it in. He usually sends for some one to go and get it but this time he brought it himself and he was in one hell of a temper, swearing because some other guy had left his car in the way and yelling at me till he was purple in the face! That little bus of his is a good machine all right and powerful for her size, but she come limping in like a dog that had been kicked, and I see she was all battered up on one side. Waverly wasn't in no state to be asked questions, though, and he didn't say anything about an accident. He had on a big yellow leather motor coat and I saw there was blood on it."
"Was he hurt, too?" McCarty added with as vicious a snarl as he could muster. "I hope to the Lord he was!"
"No. I was putting the car up and he was standing 'round under the lamp when I first got a good flash at him. He looked mad and kinder scared, too, and the blood—there wasn't much of it—was smudged on the chest and sleeves of the coat. He caught me staring and looked down at himself and that was the first he knew of it, I guess, for he got out of the light quick and started cursing again. He waited, though, until I had finished with the car and then gave me directions about having it fixed first thing in the morning. Handed me a dollar, too; first time I've seen more'n a quarter from him at one time!"
"I'm glad he had some damage, anyway, and I'm going to damage him a whole lot more before I'm through with him!" McCarty declared. "I guess it's no use hanging around here any longer; he'll probably send for his car if he wants it and not come for it himself. I've got his address from the license bureau; think I'd catch him in now?"
"Don't know." The man turned as a voice from the depths of the garage hailed him. "He ain't got any regular hours that I know of, but I wish you luck; he's sure some bad actor! So long."
Taking leave of his informant, McCarty returned to his rooms and, shaving, dressed himself in his usual immaculate attire. Then he went to the telephone and called up Mr. John Cavanaugh O'Rourke.
"It's just to remind you of your promise, sir, and to ask a favor of you."
"Sure, Timmie, anything for old times' sake!" came the cheery response.
"'For old times' sake!'" McCarty repeated softly as though to himself. Then he raised his voice. "'Tis for that I ventured to ask it of you, sir. For that, and to keep any notoriety about the entertainments of your friend down near Washington Square from getting in the papers and my—my associates downtown from starting anything."
"I've got you," O'Rourke said quickly. "What do you want me to do?"
"Well, sir, they've got wind of certain things—my associates, I mean—but I've got a kind of a drag myself down there and I know I can square things so that nobody'll be interfered with or even questioned." McCarty spoke with jaunty assurance, but a deep flush mantled his honest countenance as though he were heartily ashamed of himself for the rôle he was playing. "I told you I've no wish to stop people from enjoying themselves in their own way, especially when it's my way, too, now and then, and that was on the level, but this is on your account, too, sir. Will you go to see the gentleman down near the Square and tell him that the only way he can keep from an awkward investigation which would displease his friends as well as himself, is to give a little party to-night and let me pick the guests?"
"I'll do it, Timmie. Say, it would be deucedly rotten if anything comes out—!" There was an unaccustomed note of worry in the other's buoyant tones and McCarty hastened to reassure him.
"Nothing will, sir, if Mr.—your friend—will do as I say. I'll be bringing three men friends with me, and be sure you're there yourself, sir, but not—not the Lady Peggy."
"Look here, Timmie!" There was a hushed note in O'Rourke's voice now. "What's the game?"
"Just the usual one, sir. Be sure you tell your friend that. The usual game in every way—all members of the club. You understand?"
"I do, yes; but whether I can make Cutter see it—?"
"He must, sir, unless he wants to take a little trip downtown, for they've got the goods all right and you know you said yourself that things were different here to what they are in the old country. There's no discrimination used between the amusement of gentlemen and the profession of blackguards. Tell him it wouldn't do any good for him to—well, to go out automobiling, we'll say. He's got new neighbors that are interested in his house, and his car might break down before it had got far. I can't speak any plainer."
"I understand!"
"He's not to be surprised that one of my friends that I bring will be Inspector Druet; he's the fellow that'll hush everything up for us. There's just one thing more; your friend must get hold of Mr. Douglas Waverly and see that he'll be there without fail. He's apt to be in a bad humor to-day, but no matter of that. He must be made to understand that it's just a sociable little party and me and my friends are fixed proper and there to give protection as well as wanting to horn in; we don't want any trouble, so give him the quiet tip that it'd be well for all concerned if he sits in real cordial, just as though we were in the same class with him."
"All right, Timmie, I'll do my best for you. I'll call you up later and let you know what luck I have," O'Rourke replied. "Where and when can I get you?"
"At half-past six at my own rooms, sir. I would not ask it of you but 'tis to avoid trouble for all your friends."
McCarty listened with a still flaming face to the other's slightly incoherent expression of gratitude and then hung up the receiver. For a moment he paused undecidedly. Dennis, he knew, would be waiting eagerly for his appearance at the engine house to learn what new developments had arisen, but he did not want to take him into his confidence just yet; Denny was loyal but his histrionic ability was not great, and by his expression alone he would betray to the most casual observer the plan which was afoot.
Just before noon McCarty dropped in at the office of the Bulletin and found a letter awaiting him. An hour later when he presented himself at Mrs. Baillie Kip's house, he bore a somewhat bulky package wrapped in brown paper and the habitual twinkle in his blue eyes had hardened into a steely, purposeful light.
"Really, I cannot understand why you people keep hounding me!" Mrs. Kip swept into the room and regarded him with a look in which indignation and appeal were skillfully blended. "It is odious, but I suppose it is because I am a woman alone in the world that you dare to persecute me! I don't know why I have been singled out of all the Crevelings' friends, except because Mrs. Creveling has developed an inexplicable animosity towards me!"
"Has she, ma'am?" McCarty asked mildly.
Mrs. Kip shrugged.
"I have called twice and she refused to see me," she admitted. "She will not even talk to me over the telephone, and Mrs. Waverly's tone is positively insolent! I can only think that some one must have poisoned Mrs. Creveling's mind against me, but one would not imagine that she would stoop to be catty at a time like this."
"Maybe she's been hearing a few things about fans and Chinese cabinets," McCarty suggested blandly.
"What do you mean?" Mrs. Kip retreated a step and a rich color dyed her face.
"Only that now her husband's gone it was probably just as easy for Mrs. Creveling to get a line on things she hadn't known before, as it was for us to do the same thing, Mrs. Kip!" There was a stern note in his voice. "'Tis nothing to us, of course, since it has no bearing on the actual murder, but neither has the errand that brought me here the day. There's enough dirt and scandal in this case as it is without dragging in more that don't concern it and people that have been only foolish. That's why I came to you quietly to return something you lost."
He held out the bundle and Mrs. Kip took it from him in silence with averted eyes. She had winced at his brutally frank mention of "dirt and scandal" and her poise seemed shaken, but her face was an expressionless mask as she unwrapped the paper.
The next instant she shrank back as though from a blow as a scarf of rich, lustrous fur fell at her feet, and raised suddenly terrified eyes to his.
"What is it?" she cried hysterically. "That is not mine, I never saw it before! I have lost nothing! Why have you brought that here to me?"
"Because it is a part of the duty of our organization to restore lost property, ma'am." McCarty watched her face steadily. "If you've forgotten you lost that fur neck piece and where, there are plenty of people who can identify it as yours and one who knows where it was found and who else was there. It's no use, Mrs. Kip; we've got the goods straight."
She wavered and caught at a chair back. Her lips moved but for a moment no sound came. Then she asked in a hoarse whisper:
"What are you going to do?"
"That depends entirely on you, ma'am."
"Oh, what do you mean?" she cried quickly. "You have your price, of course! I forgot that!—Tell me your terms, I will do anything, pay you all you—"
"You can't pay me anything, ma'am!" McCarty interrupted. "If you'll do what I tell you there'll be no word said of that scarf unless you open your own lips, and I don't think you'll do that. If you go your own way, of course, we'll have to go ours."
"Oh, I'll do anything, anything!" Her hands were working convulsively together. "Only tell me what you want me to do!"
"Stay in your house, ma'am, for the rest of the day. Don't write any notes or talk to a soul on the 'phone or see anybody who calls. I'll come for you early this evening and I want you to be ready to go out with me and some friends of mine. You needn't be alarmed, there'll be friends of yours there, too, and you'll not be detained more than an hour."
A little color had come once again into her blanched face and now she raised her head with a little of the old spirit.
"Mrs. Waverly and Mrs. Creveling? Will they be present? I don't know anything about Mr. Creveling's death, I refuse to speak of it—!"
"You'll not be asked to, ma'am. You'll just be yourself and look on, and if you speak of anything it'll be of your own will. Of course you are free to accept my terms or act as you please—?"
"I'll accept!" she laughed hysterically. "I know when I'm beaten, and you hold the cards! After all, it's every one for themselves, isn't it? I'll be ready for you, Mr. McCarty, when you come."
Dennis Riordan was almost ill with suspense when just as he was going off duty that evening he was called to the telephone.
"'Tis me, Denny." McCarty's voice came to him over the wire. "Hotfoot it around here to my rooms as soon as you're dressed, for I'm taking you out in society to-night for a quiet little game."
"I'll have none of it!" Dennis declared. "The last time I sat in one with you I lost everything but the immortal soul of me! Where have you been this day?"
"I've been stacking the cards, Denny." There was a grimly portentous note in his tones. "I'm ready now when my deal comes to open the pot, but the Lord only knows what will come with the turn of the card!"