Part 27 (1/2)

Just then there came from below the sound of a heavy voice, singing.

The words were French and the intonation here and there was strange to Ashton-Kirk.

”Who is that?” he asked.

”It's Mr. Sagon,” replied the woman. ”He's the greatest one for singing them little French songs.”

”Ah, I have it,” said Ashton-Kirk, after a moment. ”He's a Basque, of course. I couldn't place that accent at first.”

A narrow, ladder-like flight of stairs was upon one side. Ashton-Kirk mounted these and found himself in a smaller loft; a number of well-kept c.o.c.katoos, in cages, set up a harsh screaming at sight of him. Opening a low door he stepped out upon a tin roof. Mrs. Marx and Pendleton had followed him, and the former said:

”The police was up here looking. They said Mr. Spatola came through the trap-door at Hume's place that night and walked along the roofs and so down to his own room.”

”That would he very easily done,” answered Ashton-Kirk, as his eye took in the level stretch of roofs.

After a little more questioning to make sure that the landlady had missed nothing, they thanked her and left the house. At his door they saw the man in the cloth cap and overalls. A second and very unwieldy man, with a flushed, unhealthy looking face, had just stopped to speak to him.

He supported himself with one hand on the wall.

”h.e.l.lo!” called the machinist to Ashton-Kirk; and as the two approached him, he said to the unwieldy man: ”I stopped you to tell you these gents had gone in. They're detectives.”

”Oh,” said the man, with interest in his wavering eye. ”That so.” He regarded the two young men uncertainly for a moment; and then asked: ”Did Mrs. Marx tell you anything?”

”She didn't seem to know much,” answered the investigator.

The unwieldy man swayed to and fro, an expression of cunning gathering in his face. The machinist winked and whispered to Pendleton:

”I don't know his name, but he's one of the lodgers.”

”Marx,” declared the unwieldy man, ”is a fine lady. But,” with an elaborate wink, ”she knows more'n she tells sometimes.” The wavering eye tried to fix the investigator, but failed signally. ”It don't do,”

he added wisely, ”to tell everything you know.”

Ashton-Kirk agreed to this.

”Marx could tell you something, maybe,” said the man. ”And then maybe she couldn't. But, I know _I_ could give you a few hints if I had the mind--and maybe they'd be valuable hints, too.” Here he drew himself up with much dignity and attempted to throw out his chest. ”I'm a gentleman,” he declared. ”My name's Hertz. And being a gentleman, I always try and conduct myself like one. But that's more'n some other people in Marx's household does.”

”Yes?”

”Yes, sir. When a gentleman tries to be friendly, I meets him half-way. But that fellow,” and he shook a remonstrating finger at the door of the lodging-house, ”thinks himself better'n other people.

And mind you,” with a leer, ”maybe he's not as good.”

”Who do you mean--the Dago?” asked the machinist.

”No; I mean Crawford. A salesman, eh?” The speaker made a gesture as though pus.h.i.+ng something from him with contempt. ”Fudge! Travels, does he? Rot! He can't fool me. And then,” with energy, ”what did he used to do so much in Spatola's garret, eh? What did they talk about so much on the quiet? I ain't saying nothing about n.o.body, mind you. I'm a gentleman. My name's Hertz. I don't want to get n.o.body into trouble.

But if Crawford was such a swell as not to want to speak to a gentleman in public, why did he hold so many pow-wows in private with Spatola? That's what I want to know.”

Seeing that the man's befogged intellect would be likely to carry him on in this strain for an indefinite time, Ashton-Kirk and Pendleton were about to move on. But they had not gone more than a few yards when the investigator paused as though struck with an idea. He stepped back once more and drew a photograph from his pocket.