Though it was near morning when they turned in, Jack was astir early, eager to begin the real work on his case. His surprising identification of Miriam as the former spy on Silas Gyde whetted his zeal. Her present game of course was to secure the supposed millionaire in the bonds of matrimony. Was the Red Gang behind that, or was it a private venture? Jack was inclined to think it was all part of the same scheme. In either case Mrs. Cleaver, notwithstanding her social position, must be Miriam's confederate. It was Mrs. Cleaver who had picked them up. This put the game on a pretty high level. Almost every hour of the past two days had made Jack's problem more complicated—but also more fascinating.
When he was dressed, Jack mercilessly awoke the luxurious Bobo.
"Oh, Lord!" groaned the plump youth. "Do I have to get up?"
"You can sleep all day if you like. But we have to have a little talk before I go out. Sit up and rub the sleep out of your eyes and pay attention."
Bobo obeyed, groaning lugubriously.
"It's about Miss Miriam Culbreth."
"Eh?" said Bobo, suddenly wide awake.
"Do you remember all you told me about her last night?"
"Of course I do."
"Doesn't it seem a little foolish to you this morning?"
"No, it doesn't! She's the most beautiful girl in the world. I love her more than ever!"
"Well, I'm sorry. I didn't take you very seriously last night. I thought it was too sudden. You've got to cut her out."
"Why?" asked Bobo blankly.
Jack deliberated before answering. He decided against telling Bobo the whole truth. It was within the bounds of possibility that the infatuated youth might tell the girl.
"I can't tell you all my reasons now," he said. "But believe me they are good reasons. It has to do with the game we are playing."
"You're not fair to her!" Bobo burst out. "You don't like her. She told me so herself."
"You're right, I don't like her. I have mighty good reasons for it."
"She's the noblest woman on God's footstool!"
"I'm not going to argue that with you," said Jack dryly. "I am speaking for your own good. When you first told me about her, I was afraid the poor girl might be taken in, thinking you were a millionaire. But I'm not worrying about her now. She's able to look after number one. But I tell you if you do not put her out of your head now, before the matter goes any further, you'll regret it till you die. I can't put it any stronger than that, can I?"
"I can't give her up! I can't! I love her!" cried Bobo, flinging himself down among the pillows.
"Take my word for it," said Jack earnestly, "she's no good!"
"You're wrong! You're wrong!"
Jack began to lose patience. "Well, if you won't listen to reason you'll have to take an order. Remember our agreement. You've got to give her up. This is an order, now."
"I can't! I can't!" moaned Bobo.
As usual in the display of Bobo's emotions, there was something both ludicrous and pathetic in the sight of the fat tousled head threshing the pillows. Jack grinned and said:
"Oh, go to sleep again. When you get up, have a bang-up breakfast and you'll feel better. I'll look in on you at lunch time."
Jack's first visit upon setting out from the hotel was to the offices of the Eureka Protective Association, at the address on Forty-Second street given on their representative's card.
He found the Association installed in an ordinary suite, neither grandly nor shabbily furnished, but entirely businesslike. The customary staff of a small office was visible at work: bookkeeper, stenographer and office-boy. In fact to the eye it was a wholly conventional establishment; open, aboveboard and prosperous.
Upon asking for the manager Jack was shown to an inner room, where a man of about thirty-five with a mop of lank, blonde hair hanging on his forehead, and what is known as an open countenance, was seated at a desk trimming his nails in unashamed idleness. It appeared that this was Mr. Anderson.
"Dave Anderson at your service," said he good-naturedly. "What can I do for you?
"My name is Robinson," said Jack, "secretary to Mr. Norman."
The atmosphere became balmier, as always with the mention of that magic name. "Sit down, Mr. Robinson."
Jack obeyed. "Mr. Norman felt that he wanted to know a little more about your association, and sent me around to ask a few questions."
"Perfectly natural!" cried Mr. Anderson. "Fire away! We court the fullest investigation. Certain parts of our business, of course, have to be conducted in secrecy, but as to our responsibility and trustworthiness, go as far as you like."
Jack asked all the natural questions, and Mr. Anderson answered them with every appearance of frankness. The information he gave merely amplified the talk of his representative the day before; the great public service Eureka performed, etc., etc. Jack learned nothing really significant from his talk, nor had he expected to. He asked no searching questions, because he did not want Anderson to guess that his customer was suspicious.
Jack's real purpose was to learn what kind of man was at the head of this branch of the Red Gang's activities, and while Anderson talked he studied him. In the end he had to confess himself baffled. Anderson was anything but what he had expected to find. He seemed like one of those rather slack individuals who represent the average of mankind; neither good nor bad; neither wise nor foolish; an untidy, well-meaning, loose-tongued fellow. How such a one could be trusted to direct an important part of so dangerous an enterprise, Jack was unable to understand—unless it were that Anderson himself did not know what was behind the scheme. But that did not seem credible either.
Jack left him, professing to be entirely satisfied on his employer's account.
Mr. Delamare's promised letter of introduction to the third Deputy Commissioner had come in the morning's mail. Jack's next visit was to police headquarters to present it. He wished to establish a connection there on which he could fall back on in case of need.
He found the deputy an accommodating and capable official. Since he bears no part in Jack's story, it is unnecessary to characterize him further. Jack had no intention of taking him into his confidence just yet. He merely said that he was undertaking a little detective work for his employer, and the Deputy furnished him with a circular letter to all members of the force, instructing them to lend the bearer any assistance that he required. Here, as elsewhere, the wonder-working name of Norman smoothed Jack's way.
While he was there, Jack inquired as to the status of the investigation into Silas Gyde's murder. He found that it was at a standstill. The assassin, Jansen, was confined in an asylum a raving maniac, and nothing of importance had been unearthed concerning his antecedents. If he had been a member of any anarchistic circle the fact had not been established. He appeared to have led a solitary life, moving from one hall bedroom to another. His mind had been gradually undermined by too close an application to his anarchistic studies, and to a book on the subject that he was writing.
The fact of the book was new to Jack. "Have you the manuscript?" he asked.
"It was found in his room," the Deputy said.
"May I see it?"
"Certainly. But you'll find neither head nor tail to it."
It was brought, and Jack was obliged to confess the justice of the Deputy's description. It was the product of an insane brain. One could not read more than a line or two before the head began to whirl. But Jack discovered a clew in the manuscript which had apparently escaped the police. He did not call the attention of the Deputy to it, but made a mental note for his own use. On the first page under the many and fantastic titles of the proposed work was a dedication in two words:
"To Barbarossa"
Jack walked uptown turning over the word "Barbarossa" in his mind. Where had he heard it before? Was it the name of a famous historical character or an ocean liner? The sign of a branch of the Public Library gave him an idea. He went in and consulted an encyclopedia.
This told him two things; firstly, that Barbarossa meant Redbeard, and secondly, that the original Barbarossa was a Turkish sea rover. As he was unable to figure out any connection between the old freebooter and a modern anarchist, he deduced that the old nickname had been re-applied to some new wearer of a red beard.
At the library desk he inquired: "Is there any writer on anarchistic subjects who signs himself Barbarossa?"
"We have very little of that sort of matter," the lady librarian assured him frigidly. "There is no such name in our catalogue of authors."
"Is there a bookstore where they make a specialty of such writings?" asked Jack.
The librarian admitted with strong distaste that there was, and gave him the address.
It was a little basement shop far on the East side. It was presided over by a lanky-haired, spectacled youth, who sneered at Jack's good clothes, and was prepared to hate him on the spot.
"Have you anything by Barbarossa?" Jack asked at a venture.
"Barbarossa's never written any books that I know of," was the surly reply.
Jack thought with satisfaction: "Then there is a Barbarossa!" Aloud he said: "I mean anything he's written."
The youth looked at him suspiciously.
"I heard him speak," said Jack glibly. "I'm crazy to learn more about his ideas."
"Barbarossa writes for the Future Age magazine," said the snaky-haired one. "He's one of the editors. How is it you don't know that if you know him?"
"I don't know him," said Jack. "I only heard him speak. Have you got a copy of the Future Age?"
The young book-seller produced it. "There's his article this month," he said, pointing to a title in the contents. The author's name given opposite was Arno Sturani.
"Is that Barbarossa's real name?" asked Jack.
"Everybody knows that!" was the scornful reply.
Jack bought the magazine, as well as other anarchistic publications that caught his eye. He told himself it would be a good idea to study up their lingo a little, against a future need.
At a corner drug-store in the neighborhood he purchased a sheet of cheap note-paper and an envelope, and on the counter laboriously composed the following note:
Mr. Arno Sturani:
Dear Sir:
I read some of your articles In the "Future Age." I think they are great, but don't understand them very good. I am only a poor boy without much education. But I like to think about things. I want to force the capitalists to give us a square deal. I want to learn more about your ideas. Will you let me come to see you? Or tell me where you are going to speak next time.
Yours respectfully,
Henry Cassels.
The druggist gave his permission for Jack to receive an answer at his store, so he gave that as his address. He sent the letter in the care of the Future Age magazine.
"There's one line started," he said to himself, as he let it fall in the box.