Vincent Starrett - The Blue Door

Norway was suddenly interested. He hung up the receiver, which he had just plucked from its hook. “A seal ring?” he echoed.

“A regular man’s ring; I noticed it particularly. The design on the stone intrigued me; it was the head of a sphinx.”

“The head of a sphinx!” shrieked Norway.

“Something like that. You don’t mean to say you do recognize it?”

Norway collapsed into a chair. “Good God, Bart,” he cried, “it’s Pemberton’s! I remember every line of it. I saw it on his finger that night!”

Bartlett Honeywell got quickly to his feet. For a moment he stood silent, his eyes on those of his friend. Then he spoke slowly.

“I guess I’ve been a fool, Norway,” he observed. “But she won’t fool me again. Will you come along?”

Their progress to the Sandblast was marked by an array of speeding street lamps that fell behind them like a comet’s tail; but even so they were too late.

“Miss Stravinsky has gone away,” said the resident manager of the apartment building, when they had routed him from his chambers. “She left about half an hour ago…. No, sir, I don’t know where she went. She was called away suddenly, she said, and might be gone for some time. She’s given up the apartment…. Yes, sir, she only had it by the month; the furniture is ours…. No, sir…. Yes, sir…. Yes, sir…. No, sir…. I’m afraid not, sir…. Very well, sir…. Goodnight, sir!”

There are parts of Chicago that are as satisfyingly picturesque as anything Europe can show. At night, when the shadows have painted out the ugliness that the sunlight loves to reveal, there are old-world glimpses that are worth going a distance to see. This is particularly true of what is locally known as the Near North Side, a district not too far from the roaring heart of the Loop, in which a motley of peoples and of passions have taken up their abode.

The neighborhood is known by its show spots, which is too bad, for they are quite the least attractive of the scenes it has to offer. There is that place, up a flight of stairs, where the waiters dance as they carry in one’s midnight supper, while the cook howls doleful ballads in the kitchen. And there is that blowsy club, up a miserable alley, that is a rendezvous for near-thinkers of a radical turn of thought. Free-thinkers, sex adepts, and notoriety seekers generally, speak their mind there, receiving for their performances half the contents of an impromptu tambourine. And there are little obscure back parlours, yet, where obscure poets and their lights-o’-love sit at sloppy tables and in the swash of dubious Budweiser catch a remote echo of the waves that beat on seacoast Bohemia.

But these are not the places to see. It is the accidental vignettes, the little washed-in sketches that are worth the journey. There is Elm Street, for instance, with its quaint old houses with white porcelain doorknobs and brass knockers. It progresses soberly westward from the Drive and almost ends in the broad front of a church then queerly changes its mind and winds up in a narrow byway west of LaSalle. It is like a bit of old London. The great gray mass of the Newberry Library bulks through the trees at Walton Square, and among its treasures are Latin breviaries, Sanskrit volumes with copper leaves, and an illuminated manuscript roll of the Bhagavad Ghita. To those who rest on the benches in the square there comes at times a silver chiming of bells from a neighboring temple, lost at intervals in the whir of motors in the avenue beyond and the strident voice of the fanatic who harangues an audience from a soapbox on the corner.

To the east, in Dearborn Street, the houses are elderly and tall, and once they were fashionable; but to-day placards stand in the windows or creak at the end of metal arms thrust outward from the stairheads. “Furnished Apartments,” the placards say, or, more simply, “Rooms.” Crossing the long thoroughfare at intervals, from east to west, are other streets of similar appearance, lined with gaunt, solemn houses, which at night, by the curious suggestion of darkness, sometimes seem fraught with sinister significance.

In one of the tall houses of this district was a large apartment on the second floor, to which access was gained by means of a blue door. And it was to seek this door, and that which lay beyond, that Messrs. Bartlett Honeywell and Arthur Norway went forth on the evening of the day that followed their fiasco at the apartment of Mademoiselle Stravinsky.

The hour was sufficiently late, and near an important intersection in Dearborn Street they halted their steps.

“Well,” observed Norway, “there’s the policeman, anyway.” He indicated the tall figure of a man in uniform some distance beyond them.

“There’s a policeman,” corrected Honeywell. “Whether or not he’s your policeman remains to be seen.”

“I’m almost certain this is the corner,” insisted the other, a bit nervously. “Besides, I ought to be able to recognize the fellow.”

The amateur detective shrugged dubiously. “We can only try,” he said. “Will you do the talking, or shall I?”

“If he recognizes me I’ll do it,” replied Norway. “If not, you’d better take him in hand.”

They approached slowly and halted before the policeman, who turned brusquely to confront them. There was no gleam of recognition in his glance. Norway, lacking the liquid courage that had fortified him on the preceding Saturday, made apologetic noises in his throat. His companion spoke.

“Beg pardon, officer,” he began, “but do you recognize this gentleman?”

The policeman’s gaze became more intent, and the unfortunate Norway squirmed.

“I can’t say that I do,” answered the policeman, and asked a question of his own: “What’s the idea? Am I supposed to know him?”

“The fact is,” continued Honeywell, “he was drunk last Saturday night and you gave him certain directions, he believes. He was with another gentleman, somewhat older and, I believe, somewhat less intoxicated. As the other gentleman has disappeared, we are naturally anxious to locate him.”

The policeman was interested. “I gave him directions?” he echoed. “I don’t remember them. What were the directions?”

“He and his friend were looking for some liquor, and they asked a policeman where they could get some. The policeman told them. I don’t know that you were the policeman.”

“Oh, you don’t!” cried the bluecoat with solemn irony. He added: “Say, what are you fellows trying to do? Kid me?”

“On my honor,” replied Honeywell, “I’m telling what I believe to be the truth. A policeman told my friend here of a place where he could get some liquor; where, in fact, he did get some liquor. Later, the gentleman who was with my friend disappeared, and we are afraid that something has happened to him.”

“Oh, you are afraid that something has happened to him?” The policeman’s sarcasm became more profound, a thing of weight and substance. After a moment he spoke again, gently and with an almost friendly smile. “Look here, buddy, I don’t know whether you’re coo-coo or I am, but just you move quietly along and forget that stuff, or something might happen to you . See? Take a tip from a friend, and get started.”

“If you’re not the man,” said the amateur detective in friendly tones, “of course you think I’m crazy. I don’t blame you. But let me ask you just one more question: Do you know anything about the sleeping cabman?”

The burly policeman retreated a step. “The what?” he demanded.

“The sleeping cabman. An old fellow asleep on a cab, you know, who takes people where they want to go. He only lets on he’s asleep until you climb into his cab; then he whips up his horse and—”